


Teachings of the Priestess

by goldenteaset



Series: Swapping Fates [8]
Category: Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, The Epic of Gilgamesh
Genre: Alchemy, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dancing and Singing, Food Porn, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Male-Female Friendship, Mana Transfer, Mentor/Protégé, Pacifism, Past Character Death, Self Confidence Issues, Servant Swap, Shamhat and Gilgamesh have a weird relationship, Waver has no idea what he's doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 20:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8860273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenteaset/pseuds/goldenteaset
Summary: "She smiles and bends down to look at him, her long, deep green hair flowing over her shoulder. 'I ask of you…are you worthy to be my Master?'
The young man starts like a fawn, his big green eyes wide. After a long, awkward pause, he looks down at the grass, then at her. He shows her the Command Seals on his hand, red as bull’s blood. She admires their flowing yet jagged shape.
'I—I should be,' the young man says with attempted confidence. 'I summoned you, after all.'
Shamhat laughs softly to herself and holds out her hand to help him up. 'I am Caster. It’s a pleasure to meet you.'"
In which Shamhat is summoned into the Caster Class, and finds herself once again set an impossible task with a conflicted student.





	1. An Unexpected Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is, the first Swapping Fates fic with basically an OC Servant. Sure, Shamhat probably can't be summoned in canon, but I figured it would be an interesting scenario to write anyway! 
> 
> As far as Shamhat's backstory, it complies more with Epic canon than Fate/ canon, but Enkidu taking on her form is the same.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Fate/Zero or the Epic of Gilgamesh.

Shamhat stands amidst white fog in a forest clearing, feeling dewy grass wet her ankles. She takes deep, slow breaths, the night air chilling her lungs. _Where am I?_ In the distance, she hears roaring and honking horns, like beasts in battle.

All at once, her head pounds as knowledge flows into her—this is the 20th century, she is in the Holy Grail War, she is of the Caster class—on and on it flows, at first like a deluge and then like a burbling spring. She lifts tan, slender hands to her head and rubs her temples to ease the strain.

As the fog recedes around Shamhat, she sees a young man clad in green, sitting on the ground with an expression somewhere between awed and frightened. It’s a little nostalgic—virgins were among her clientele as a priestess of Inanna, and treated with the care and courtesy she gave to everyone who asked for her services.

She smiles and bends down to look at him, her long, deep green hair flowing over her shoulder. “I ask of you…are you worthy to be my Master?”

The young man starts like a fawn, his big green eyes wide. After a long, awkward pause, he looks down at the grass, then at her. He shows her the Command Seals on his hand, red as bull’s blood. She admires their flowing yet jagged shape.

“I—I should be,” the young man says with attempted confidence. “I summoned you, after all.”

Shamhat laughs softly to herself and holds out her hand to help him up. “I am Caster. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Waver Velvet.” Amusingly, Waver shakes her hand but gets up on his own. “Your voice is deeper than I expected…anyway, we should get back, before the old couple I’m staying with get suspicious.”

Shamhat looks down at her white robes, growing wet and chilly from dew. “What about my attire?”

Waver blinks in confusion. “…What about it? You’re going to be in Spirit Form anyway, it doesn’t matter.” Then his cheeks flush sweetly. “ _Oh_ , are you cold? Here!”

He wriggles out of his green sweater and hands it to her, glancing away seemingly out of embarrassment. The sweater certainly _looks_ warm, and he seems unfazed by the cold, so…

Shamhat takes it from him, admiring the soft yet sturdy woolen fabric before pulling it over her head. Warmth slowly envelops her upper body, and the faint electric tang of Magecraft wafts into her nose.

“Thank you, Waver,” she says with a smile.

“It’s nothing,” Waver grumbles, and continues doing so as they walk back to his lodgings.

_Well, this is an unexpected beginning…but a pleasant one._

\---

 Waver, as it turns out, is _terrible_ at social interaction.

He jumps like a startled frog when the old woman politely greets him from the kitchen, hastily claims nothing’s the matter, and bolts upstairs before the poor old woman can speak further. Shamhat floats after him in Spirit Form, her heart aching a little for this old couple whose hospitality they’re infringing upon.

She finds the old couple’s house rather pleasant, if cramped. But then again, she is used to a spacious temple filled with linen sheets and the luscious scent of myrrh incense. _But if I could withstand the wilds of the forest for seven days and six nights, this is nothing!_

When she enters Waver’s room and turns corporeal in a flurry of jade flecks, she finds Waver slumped on his bed as if he’d raced through Uruk’s market place twice over.

         “I screwed up, I screwed up, I screwed up…!” Waver clutches his head in his hands and groans. “I should’ve waited until I _knew_ they were asleep, but _nooooo_ —”

“You did your best,” Shamhat says, still standing by the door. “Life is unpredictable; all we can do is flow with it as best we can.” She smiles and strolls into the room, her hands clasped behind her back. “Or we can seize pleasure in whatever way it comes.”

Waver lifts his head and gazes at her thoughtfully. He gives no indication that he understood her, however.

“…I’m tired.” He yawns like a cat, stumbles to his feet and walks over to the closet. “You should sleep too.”

Shamhat looks down at the garment she still wears. “Do you want this back?”

Waver opens the closet door and pulls out a pair of striped pajamas. He looks at her and frowns. “Sure, if you’re warming up.”

She nods—this room _is_ rather cold, possibly due to being on the second floor. “I should feel better in the morning.”

He grunts in agreement and moves to turn off the light. “Turn back into Spirit Form, that’ll keep mana at a minimum.”

Her fingers twitch in reproach, still unsure of what to make of this situation. Just as Waver douses the room in a cocoon of shadows, she asks him a question:

“Have you always treated others as tools, Waver Velvet?”

Waver doesn’t answer, but she can sense his discomfort.

She listens to the _rustle_ and _hiss_ as he undresses, and wonders how he can see in the dark. _Perhaps he’s ashamed of his body, or of being seen by me?_ The thought is alien to her, and she tucks it in the back of her mind with a clouded heart.

She returns to Spirit Form as requested and “sits” by the window, watching the moon between the slatted blinds until she falls asleep.

\---

Shamhat’s dream is strange—it isn’t of Uruk, or Enkidu’s embrace, but of Waver’s past.

_She watches as a younger Waver spent hours and hours poring over leather-bound books thrice his size, at first with enthusiasm, then with growing stress. His world revolved around three rooms: a labyrinthine library, a towering lecture hall, and a lonely, cramped dorm room with graying walls. People, happier and smarter and “better” than he, passed him by as if he were made of smoke. And if they_ did _notice him—these moments are fragmented, but the glimpses of harsh jeers and fists smeared with blood are more than enough for Shamhat. Waver’s professors were no better._

_“I’ll show them,” Waver said, as his pen flowed across page after page, his eyes bright with sleepless mania. “My theory will prove them all wrong, and then…!”_

When Shamhat wakes, Waver still sleeps. He shivers as his blankets pool off the bed, and she retrieves them for him.

_…He is sickly._ She frowns at the worry lines on his brow, the boniness of his body, and wonders why the Holy Grail saw fit to make this boy a soldier.

She ambles over to the desk and decides to look at her relic. The box’s black lid barely makes a sound as she lifts it and peers inside. Her heart pounds—it’s a fossilized stick of incense, probably from the Temple of Inanna. _How embarrassing, to have something meant for my goddess represent_ me _instead._

She replaces the lid quickly after Waver grunts and tosses about. She isn’t sure what the protocol is, exactly, between Masters and Servants—she can’t recall being summoned before this. _No doubt I’m overthinking this…but then my Master does so too._

Once Waver slips back into slumber, she begins setting up her Workshop. It’s strange—she was never a Mage in life, necessarily, but perhaps the Grail considered her role as priestess to be the same thing. _Perhaps this is a good thing—we’ll need all the aid we can get._

The elderly couple won’t notice the invisible, oxblood-red weave that swirls around their house like spider-silk. They won’t hear Shamhat’s chanting in the Language of the Gods as she begins constructing protective charms for Waver. She wonders if the other Servants will notice—or if they’ll sense her and Waver’s unimpressive mana and pay them no mind.

Shamhat smiles as the sun’s dawning rays dance on her skin. _Dismiss us at your peril, then._

\---

That evening, Waver jolts up from his bed, after spending hours looking through the eyes of a mouse.

“Hey, Caster!”

Shamhat barely hears him over her—or rather, _Waver’s_ headphones, listening to the dramatic and rambunctious music of this era. (She wants to dance, but Waver claims this will disturb the elderly couple, so she complies.) Reluctantly, she stops the CD player and slides the headphones down to drape over her neck, the plastic warm against her skin.

“What is it, Waver?”

Waver strikes a dramatic pose, so different from his previous demeanor. “Assassin’s been killed; that’s one Servant we don’t have to deal with!”

“Hm,” Shamhat says, twirling the headphones’ black wire around her finger thoughtfully. “We should celebrate with drinks, then.” She takes off the headphones and stands, brushing off her robes in case of lint.

She remembers something, and takes one of the amulets she made and presses it into Waver’s palm. The round, mana-forged metal sweats between the warmth of their joined palms. She retracts her hand and smiles as he admires her work.

“What’s this?” Waver asks, holding the leather cord and letting the gleaming silver amulet bob and sway hypnotically. “Is this your Noble Phantasm?”

“Oh, no—just my Item Construction ability. This will protect you on the field of battle; I’ve created others as well.”

“…Amazing.” Waver glances aside with a slightly furrowed brow. “As expected from a Heroic Spirit.”

Shamhat inclines her head respectfully. “In life, I was blessed by the goddess I served—and a dear friend as well.” She ignores the spark of pain in her heart.

“I’m glad you were,” Waver says, hanging the amulet around his neck.  

That settled, she heads to the bedroom door.

“Wait, where’re you going?” The bed _creaks_ loudly as Waver gets up, his voice high with annoyance. “We’re supposed to go fight!”

“And so we shall. But first, we feast.” Shamhat even shifts into Spirit Form to appease him. “By the way—did you see the appearance of Assassin’s attacker?”

“Well…I think? I’m not sure. It all happened so fast.”

“Ponder it while we walk, then.”

As they travel to the more bustling parts of town in search of good drink, Shamhat takes in the world before her with unrestrained amazement: the huge metallic buildings illuminated from within, the panther-like speed of passing cars, the competing scents of food that waft in from restaurants and street venders—this is all so close and yet so far from what she knows. _The people here aren’t as beautiful and loose-limbed as Uruk’s, but they do seem as fond of food and drink!_

Waver doesn’t seem to understand the appeal—but then he’s the one being jostled about by all sides, fighting against the current of people. And yet, he does seem to know his way around: he leads her to an aptly named “convenience store” and buys them both something called a bento for dinner.

She tries to convince him to buy something alcoholic, but as it turns out he isn’t able to drink yet. _How strange! Something serious must have happened in this era for wine and beer to be so regulated._ She reluctantly settles for a malt drink, while Waver has canned coffee.

“Fascinating,” she says softly, as Waver fumbles with the money.

The cashier seems to take it in stride, his smile never faltering as he rings up their change. He even heats up their bento in the microwave—an amazing contraption Shamhat can’t wait to try. She can easily see this man behind a stall in Uruk, dealing with customers both courteous and rude.

“Let’s find someplace quiet,” Waver mutters to her, as he carries the food-laden plastic bag with a stiff arm. “I don’t want to look like I’m talking to thin air!”

“I could turn corporeal,” she suggests, as a salaryman slides through her and shivers with a sudden chill.

Waver hisses “Not here, idiot!”

Heat crawls up her neck. “… _What_ did you call me?”

Waver doesn’t appear to understand his mistake, but he grumbles an apology anyway.

Shamhat notices a beautiful red bridge in the distance, a perfect red arch. “We should go to that bridge, Waver!”

“Eh? Why?”

“It looks beautiful, and no doubt has an excellent view. And…” She focuses carefully, able to sense a slight thrum of prana in the distance. “I sense a Servant somewhere in that direction. We can perform reconnaissance and see who they are!”

Waver nods excitedly—then cringes, as if expecting mockery. “…That sounds good.”

Shamhat smiles in reassurance—though she notes how he didn’t thank her. “Indeed. Now, then, shall we go?”

She leisurely scoops him up and teleports him over to the bridge. For some reason this distresses Waver, making him squirm around in her arms like a rambunctious kitten. _Is it because I’m cradling him? Most would find it pleasant—but then he is a shy one._ She adjusts him so that he’s draped over her back instead, like a sack of wheat, and ensures her grip on him (and their food) is firm.

They arrive at the bridge in a flurry of night-blue, petal-like dust motes. As expected, no one is around—she gently deposits Waver, letting him regain his footing.

“Don’t just pick me up like that!” Waver’s fingers agitatedly brush his Command Seals, his face pinched with annoyance.

“Very well, I shall ask next time.”

Waver seems surprised at how quickly she acquiesced—but then he smirks and rests his fingers to his forehead. “Good, you know who’s in charge here!” With a chuckle dripping with smugness, he searches through the bags. “I sure got lucky with a devoted Servant like you!”

In that instant, she sees him not as a young boy in need of guidance, but a spoiled brat in need of a lesson in manners. _Though I_ have _dealt with worse, wild bulls such as this are always insufferable._

Shamhat folds her arms across her chest and glares down at him. “I disagree.”

He pauses, his coffee halfway out of the bag. “Huh?”

“Did you see my relic? That was incense belonging to my goddess. I spent my life in devotion to her first, with my King second.” She cocks her head to one side, unblinking. “You truly believe you are at their level?”

Waver pauses, seemingly chastened. Then he thrusts out his Command Seals like a certificate of ownership. “Well too damn bad, then, I’m—”

“—A Master chosen by the Grail, despite your faults. I know.” She lets her voice soften slightly, and slowly relaxes her posture. “We both know this arrogance is a distorted view of you. There will always be Mages stronger than you, with more prestige and accolades.”

Wetness forms in the corners of Waver’s eyes, enhancing his anger. “So I should give up, then?”

Shamhat shakes her head. “No, _no._ But you should focus on what brings you joy in this world.” Her belly growls—a delightfully human sensation, one not experienced in a long, long time. “We should eat.”

Waver reluctantly hands over her drink and food, and they begin to dine. The malt drink has a sweet, slightly buttery flavor, and close enough to beer to sate her craving. The bento is fried chicken and rice, and tastes remarkably savory; it’s warm on her tongue without burning it. Waver seems to enjoy his meal as well.

Shamhat watches the river beneath them, how the city lights illuminate the water in neon pink and yellow, while the moon’s reflection tries to compete with such modernity. _This may be our last peaceful night for a long while yet. We should appreciate it._

Waver seems to have similar thoughts, judging by how he’s taking in the city skyline and the river with thoughtful eyes. He’s eating very quickly as a result, seeming unaware of his meal’s flavor and texture.

_I wonder…since he was so busy, this may be the first time in a while he’s relaxed._ With that thought in mind, Shamhat savors her chicken and rice in hopes that Waver will follow her example.

This scene reminds her sharply of her time with Enkidu and their King. Whenever they had time to spare (which wasn’t often), they would sit on the palace roof and watch the moon cast Uruk and the Euphrates in a silvery glow. She can still taste the sweet wine on her lips, and hear Enkidu and her King’s laughter even now.

Suddenly, a surge of prana rolls over the water—it’s coming from the seaside park. It’s fresh, exhilarating and bursting with youth; Shamhat’s immediately curious. The only Heroes she knew in life were her King and Enkidu, so here is yet another new experience.

“Can you sense that?” she asks softly, before taking a sip of her drink.

“ _Duh_ ,” Waver replies around a mouthful of rice. He swallows and gestures vaguely with his chopsticks. “It feels like a fight between Servants. I’m not sure of who, though—they’re too far away.”

Shamhat smiles. “Then we shall move closer.”

“Wait, what? No way! What if it’s somebody we can’t beat?”

“Then we run away and find someone else to fight! Hmm…ah, or we could convince another Servant or Master to fight for us.”

Waver looks utterly affronted. “But that’s cowardly!”

_What a strange answer._ She tilts her head to one side. “How so?”

“Well—we’re supposed to fight head-on, Servant against Servant and Master against Master! That’s what you’re here for, right?”

The fear flickering behind his eyes makes her doubt his sincerity. She suspects that if faced with a powerful opponent, he would retreat without hesitation—which is understandable and wise. This “bravery” feels more like an excuse to do…something foolish.

But…

Shamhat pauses. “…Yes, that’s true. But I would rather find as many paths to victory as possible. Others will have had the same idea as you.”

“But it’s—ugh, never mind.” Waver rubs his face exaggeratedly before pointing at her. “We’ll _keep our distance_ , got it?”

She chuckles and nods. “Very well!”

\---

Shamhat and Waver teleport a block away from the seaside park and stand atop one of the squat, gray buildings to see the battle. Waver, ever clever, thought to bring along a pair of binoculars in his backpack—Shamhat eagerly tries them out. After a little fiddling with the controls, she peers into the black tubes and sees twin images of Saber and Lancer battling.

They can’t be any other classes—not just because of their weapons (a strange, wind-cloaked blade and two spears of red and gold respectively), rather due to their demeanors. Saber can’t be anything but a knight: they didn’t exist in Shamhat’s era, but the Grail fills in the blanks in her memory efficiently. Knights fought with honor and quick, heavy slashes of their broadswords, cutting and hacking into their foes like an axe through dead wood.

Lancer is an honorable sort himself, but he’s faster, more ruthless, all wit and speed. His spears spin and glide through the air as if it was silk, but his sun-yellow eyes are alight with bloodlust. Somehow, this only makes him more appealing.

She trails her gaze down his body, admiring the creamy-pale skin, the way his green attire yearns to be cast aside (his thighs alone deserve to be adorned with kisses). His hair is elegantly windswept, made for fingers to bury into the kohl-black strands and tug. His refreshing smile is bright and beautiful—

_—Wait._ Shamhat squints and zooms in on Lancer’s face. _Something is very odd here._

She soon catches the problem: a cursed mole under Lancer’s left eye, like an overflowing bottle of scented oil, or an extra glaze of honey on a palace cake. _It enhances his appeal to the point of overabundance._ This, then, can only be Diarmuid of the Love Spot, First Knight of Fianna.

_Then who is Saber?_ She quickly turns the binoculars back to the silvery-blue swordsman. At first, there’s nothing really noteworthy, save that Saber’s hair is a lighter color than Shamhat’s King’s, and Saber’s eyes are an alien green Shamhat’s never seen before.

And then—somehow, perhaps it’s her own intuition—she realizes Saber’s a woman. Not just any woman, either, but one blended perfectly between the masculine and feminine, vibrant yet coolly passionate, elegant in motion and speech. _In other words, this is a King._

She waits for a lull in the whirling, wild action before making her choice.

She looks to Waver. “Do you want to get closer?”

Waver’s snide amusement is pleasantly genuine. “Since you’re not going to let _me_ take a look—”

Shamhat laughs with slight embarrassment and hands the binoculars over. “Here. Do they look like Assassin’s killer?”

From behind the binoculars, Waver looks rather strange—like a human with bug-eyes. He lifts them up and down for a few moments, sizing them up. His frown deepens.

“…Nope. Saber and Lancer aren’t flashy enough.”

Shamhat rubs her chin thoughtfully. “‘Flashy’, you say…I suppose that narrows the suspects down a little.”

Waver lowers the binoculars and blinks, as if trying to reorient himself. “So now what?”

“Do you have the amulet, still? Good. Stay here a moment.”

Waver sputters something, but she doesn’t listen. She leaps from building to building with strength that wasn’t hers in life, feeling the wind tangle through her hair. The ground glides toward her, and her feet _tap_ and tremble gently as she lands a short distance from the two combatants.

“Good evening,” she says, bowing slightly. “Your fight is magnificent, and I wanted a better view!”

Saber’s Master, a white-haired Caucasian woman Shamhat only just noticed, looks at Shamhat with wine-red eyes wide in shock.

“You’re a Servant,” she says in a high, sweet voice.

“Caster, to be precise.” Shamhat smiles at her. “You and Saber appear to be well-matched. My congratulations to you both!”

She can’t help but be a touch amused by everyone’s utter bafflement. _This could turn into an excellent strategy, now that I think of it._

“Are you going to fight us?” Saber asks, her alto voice coarsened with distrust.

Shamhat shakes her head. “I wish to converse with you. There is plenty of time for battle—that _is_ why we’re here, after all.”

Lancer is staring at her with open wariness, blocking his curse with the pad of his thumb. Then his brows furrow, and he takes an uncertain step closer.

“…Are you unaffected by my Love Spot?” he asks, a slight hint of hope in his carefully controlled baritone.

“It keeps informing me of your beauty, despite that being obvious,” she answers dryly. “I have encountered stronger charms than yours, fortunately.”

Lancer grins and settles his red spear comfortably on his shoulder. “Well, that makes interactions easier. It would be cruel to have to strike down an unarmed woman!”

“Indeed,” Shamhat says, while she searches for Lancer’s hidden Master. Wherever they are, they’ve hidden themself beyond her detection. “In any event, I have a question to ask you two.”

Saber and Lancer glance at each other then nod slowly.

Shamhat claps her hands in delight. “Ah, excellent! Thank you. So, my question is: did either of you two kill Assassin?”

Saber answers first. “No, neither of us are the culprit. Are you hunting for the murderer?”

“Yes; it seems suspiciously convenient, don’t you agree?”

Saber’s Master smiles and shakes her head. “Not really! The Grail War may have begun early, but in the end—”

“— _Ugh, stop this nonsense,_ ” an implacable voice drawls, the resounding words overpowering the conversation. “ _Lancer, get rid of this poor excuse for a Servant!_ ”

Shamhat glances up in the direction she suspects the voice is coming from. She pitches her voice so that she can be heard: “How can you judge that from so far away, I wonder? Are you certain you wish to face me, Lancer’s Master?”

“ _Lancer, what are you waiting for?_ ”

Lancer’s chest rises and falls in a long, weary exhale. His eyes are clouded with regret. “You should run, Caster.”

Shamhat frowns and braces herself. “If I do, your Master will order you after me. So I shall oppose you, here and now.”

Saber looks to her Master, clearly torn between helping Lancer or staying out of it. Her Master seems equally uncertain.

Shamhat uses the opportunity to decide how to escape this situation. Fortunately, the answer arrives quickly.

“Lancer, this is the perfect night for a drink, is it not?”

Lancer’s brows rise, but he doesn’t reply.

Shamhat smiles and holds out her hand in as beguiling a manner as possible in a situation this dire. “The moonlight glows over the ale’s milky foam, and as you take a sip, it tingles richly against your tongue. You’ve had a long, invigorating battle against a worthy foe, and the drink is as sweet as victory!”

As she hoped, Lancer rocks uncertainly on his feet.

She holds out her arms in a welcoming stance, as she stares up at the peerless moon with a smile. “As the ale slides down your throat and into your belly, it warms you from the inside and makes the world turn hazy around the edges of your vision…”

Lancer laughs in exasperated amusement. “ _You_ ,” he says, pointing at her with an unsteady hand, “are inebriating me.”

“Yes, and is it not delightful?”

“It will take more than one drink to fell me…but I will enjoy your attempts, Caster!” It’s unclear if that’s a challenge or flattery.

Shamhat decides that it’s both. She smiles at Saber. “Would you care to join us?”

Saber’s squinting at Shamhat like she’s a puzzle missing pieces. “…I see. This is Alcoholic Fruit—by describing inebriation, you create it in your opponent.”

“You are correct. I brought a wild man out of the wilderness with praise of civilization—this is my blessing!”

“A wild man…?” Alas, Saber doesn’t seem to know Enkidu’s name. It’s a little disheartening.

Shamhat glances toward where Lancer’s Master may lie. “Do you understand now? Or will you continue to skulk in the shadows?”

The annoyed huff in response echoes. Finally: “ _I believe you have made your point. Withdraw, Lancer! This woman isn’t worth our time—for tonight.”_

Lancer chuckles and tips his head gratefully toward Shamhat. “You are rather lucky, Caster.” He looks toward Saber with fond confidence. “Saber—I look forward to our next bout!”

“As do I,” Saber says. As Lancer leaves, she looks at Shamhat with an unreadable expression. “You are a very strange Servant, Caster. As you are a woman, I have no wish to battle you. But if you desire the Grail…”

“I do,” Shamhat says, her words quiet but steely. “And so does my Master.”

Saber nods, though she looks uncomfortable with this news. “Then I have no choice but to face you eventually.”

Saber’s Master stands uncertainly behind Saber, with her gloved hands clasped to her bosom. Despite clearly yearning to speak, she does not.

“We shall see,” Shamhat says, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I, for one, believe there are other methods to obtain our wishes.”

Saber’s smile is unexpectedly soft; it casts her in a protecting light. “Perhaps that’s true. Farewell, until next time!”

“Farewell,” Shamhat says, as Saber and her Master depart.

After checking to ensure everyone is gone, Shamhat teleports back to Waver. She returns to the rooftop in a flurry of blue petals and finds Waver curled up in a ball, his whole body trembling. She crouches down to his level, heart pounding.

“Are you injured?” she asks, immediately regretful that she left him alone.

Waver shakes his head, but when he looks at her his eyes are wide with fear. “Lancer’s Master…I-I think I know who it is.”

Shamhat has an inkling of what he means—that smug tone _did_ seem similar to one in the memory-dream. “Do you suspect it’s one of your teachers?” She hesitates to call them that, as it’s plainly inaccurate to the Clock Tower’s reality.

“Yeah. It’s Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald, the guy who—who seems to think I’m just a _cockroach_.”

Shamhat rests her hand on his shoulder. “He has no idea who my Master is, I assure you. You’re safe—”

Waver twitches his shoulder, and she retracts her hand. He looks at her with a face strained with terror and frustration…yet for the first time Shamhat sees a glimmer of courage in this gangly young man.

“He’ll figure it out,” Waver rasps. “He always seems to know when it’s me.” He squeezes his arm so hard Shamhat can hear the muscle straining. “ _Damn it_ , why didn’t I go with you? Instead, I sat here like a coward…!”

Shamhat sits patiently and lets him rant. She watches as Waver’s hand gestures grow more extravagant, as the fear in his eyes is burnt away by his anger at injustice.

“I’ll show him,” Waver finally says, as a lopsided, almost feral grin spreads across his face. It’s identical to the memory-dream. “I’ll show them all that even a nobody like me can survive the Grail War!”

It may be a small goal—barely a wish—and not a little reminiscent of Enkidu’s past boasting, but it’s a goal Shamhat can appreciate. It may not be Waver’s true desire, but it’s a beginning. (This will also make _her_ wish easier to grant.)

She laughs softly and glides to her feet before pulling Waver up as well. He stumbles forward in surprise, but she catches and steadies him before he falls.

“Very well,” she says with a grin, before releasing Waver to let him stand on his own. “Lancer’s Master deserves a comeuppance! But first…”

“First?” Waver’s brows pinch familiarly.

“We have a lead as to Assassin’s murderer now—and it’s neither Lancer or Saber.” She stares out at Fuyuki, this battlefield of unfeeling metal and searing neon, then back at him. “Which means we have three more options: Rider, Archer and Berserker.”

Now that she’s brought Waver’s attention back to the mystery, he seems less stressed. “The Rider class is what you’re best against, so let’s start there!”

“Yes, tomorrow,” Shamhat says, covering her mouth while she yawns. “This evening has been eventful enough—let’s return.”

Waver doesn’t agree immediately, but soon weariness overcomes him too. “Yeah. We’ll work extra hard tomorrow, got it?”

“Understood,” she says as she teleports them back to their base.

\---

After Waver collapses in bed, Shamhat leaves him a note that she’s outside and goes to the yard in Spirit Form. In typical fashion, now that she’s able to rest she can’t bring herself to. Something about tonight makes her restless, as if she’s back at the temple preparing for a guest, or a ritual.

She strolls through the wet grass and runs her fingers against the coarse, rock wall, checking that her Bounded Field is still in place. _Everything seems secure._ Once she reaches the backyard, where the house opens up to the forest, she pauses. A shiver crawls up her spine like a scorpion, and she peers into the dark trees.

“Such solemnity does not become you,” says the smooth, baritone voice from the shadows.

Shamhat knows that voice in all its myriad tones, from icy authority to the playful, seductive lilt deep in his throat. Her heart quickens with both wariness and something softer.

“Your Highness,” is all she can say, as Gilgamesh, King of Uruk glides out of the forest toward her Bounded Field.

He isn’t wearing his regal robes, but instead a white linen shirt, snakeskin pants and a gold necklace and bracelets that curve about his bronzed skin. His red eyes gaze at her as if he’s trying not to see something in her face. (She has a guess as to why.)

“Hmm…” He finally looks at her in something resembling a normal way, a sly smile on his lips. “I must say, I never expected you to be here—or in the Caster class, for that matter.”

“I should have expected you,” she says, slowly remembering how to be comfortable around him (despite their gulf in status). “To have only myself as standard-bearer for Uruk would feel very strange!”

“And yet, you have great success in that regard.” His tone is almost teasing.

“Why did you travel through the forest, Your Highness?”

“Because you refused to stay still until just now; it was most irritating.” Gilgamesh scowls then shrugs. “In any event…what’s your opinion of your Master? I noticed you left him, before your little chat with those mongrels.”

Shamhat doesn’t bother asking how Gilgamesh knows about that—he’s always been one for feats of strength, and was probably spectating unseen.

“My Master is…untested. To bring him with me during such an intense moment could prove fatal for both of us.”

Gilgamesh peers through the red-and-violet strands of her Bounded Field, his head cocked curiously to one side. “Do you intend to test him?”

She doesn’t know how to answer that question, so she elects not to. “What about you, my King?”

Gilgamesh’s lip curls in distaste. “He seems to prefer overly-complicated deceptions and plots, while also refusing to let me battle as is proper. But he treats me with reverence and supplies me with mana, so perhaps that is a fair trade.”

Shamhat frowns. “…My Master is similar. He wishes for glory, but at the same time seems hesitant to put his plans into motion. It’s…rather difficult to understand why. He does have compassion, despite his occasional complaints. It’s merely that past experiences have hardened his heart.”

“Have you offered your love-arts to him? That could give you mana as well.” It’s stated as pragmatically as expected from her King.

She lets out a long sigh from deep within her chest. “As always, you have no sense of sacredness.”

“I leave that tedious business to you—well, save for the Harvest Rites, that is. But you evaded my question again…”

_That’s because you interrupted me—but you are aware of that._ “No, I haven’t offered. He appears to have no interest in such things—and if he does, his easily-flustered nature would deter him.”

Of course, Gilgamesh laughs shamelessly at this response. “Ah, poor, sweet Shamhat! You are in a far worse predicament than I.” He wipes away a tear of mirth with his thumb and mutters “‘Easily-flustered’…oh, what misfortune for you…!”

“Goodnight, my King,” Shamhat says curtly, turning on her heel. One of the best ways to get Gilgamesh’s attention is to simply leave before the conversation’s finished. It may be risky, but his boredom tends to override any annoyance he feels.

She can practically hear him pout. “Shamhat, are you truly going to leave your King unattended?”

“Of course. I am not your wet-nurse.”

Gilgamesh lets out a long sigh. “After having to withstand such tedium, your acidic words are almost endearing!”

“I’m glad to have relieved you. However, I am still leaving.”

“You and I both know you are missing something important in that house. Several, in fact.”

Her hands curl into fists despite herself. She forces them to loosen.

“I can live without them. Do not pretend to care for me, Your Highness.”

“Then we are both neglecting our duties.” He laughs wryly. “What strange standard-bearers for Uruk we are!”

He steps closer; the Bounded Field _sparks_ in warning.

She whips around, body coiled for a fight. “I will endure it! Why have you come here to begin with?”

“I came to share a piece of information with you.” A glowing portal appears by his head, and a gold pitcher floats out of it, followed by a cup. “But if you are determined to return to your easily-flustered Master empty-handed…”

She tries not to look at the pitcher, how royal purple wine pours from it like a lyre’s melody, the sound of cups being filled hanging tantalizingly in the air. The scent is as sweet as she remembers, and even a whiff makes her mouth water.

“…Information, you say…about what?”

“Assassin’s murderer.”

The air grows heavy with tension.

He swirls the wine for a moment and takes a sip, his eyes never leaving hers for an instant. His throat bobs luxuriantly, and he lifts his lips from the goblet with a soft sound of appreciation.

“It’s delicious,” he says softly. “The brewers added a hint of honey for flavor.”

It reminds her of the Harvest Festival ceremonies they performed together…and the marriage beds he impinged upon in his tyrannical days.

_Stay focused._ “May I have the information?”

“Say—”

“— _Please._ ”

Gilgamesh grins and takes another sip before speaking. “Thank you. The answer is quite simple: _I_ , Archer, am the one who put that mad dog out of his misery.”

It all makes sense now: from Waver’s description to why she hadn’t sensed Gilgamesh until now. _And yet…_

“But…why tell me all this?” She can’t help but ask: it’s suspiciously convenient.

“Why not?” Amusement hangs from Gilgamesh’s words like perspiration on a cup of mulled wine. “Your expressions have always been a delight. And this frees you to focus on other foes, such as Lancer’s Master.”

“And to ignore your faction?” She laughs wryly. “If you think that, you are mistaken!”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that, I assure you. You, who has never been at war…watching you and your Master struggle for _my_ Grail may prove amusing!”

She stands proud and folds her arms across her chest. “As your vassal—”

“—Come now, Shamhat, we both know who you _truly_ served.” He cocks his head to one side, his crimson eyes glittering in the bone-white light of the moon. His voice melts into a whisper: “Unless, of course, you wish to beg on your Master’s behalf…”

“I’m afraid not.”

“As expected from you. Very well. Then will you not share a cup with me? I can tell you have been bereft of one of your fondest pleasures all day today…”

“As I said before, I can endure it.”

Gilgamesh traces the rim of his goblet with a long, elegant finger, slowly, delicately. He smiles like a man who knows a woman’s weaknesses yet will focus on her strengths—depending upon his whim.

She considers continuing to make him work for her seduction, as he’s been doing throughout their encounter. She chooses to save that for another time.

“Thank you for the information, Your Majesty…but now I must depart.” She bows before turning on her heel and strolling away, the dew-laden grass tickling her ankles.

“Will you tell your Master from who you received your information?” Gilgamesh asks, bored curiosity drenching his voice.

“Of course—he has the right to know.”

“Good.” She hears him beginning to teleport away. “I look forward to witnessing your next encounters, Shamhat.”

As she enters Spirit Form and floats in through Waver’s bedroom window, she ponders this strange reunion with Gilgamesh. _Something felt strange about him tonight…he is neither the cruel tyrant nor benevolent ruler that I served. Something is wrong—but what? He died content, having traveled all roads and experiencing the greatest grief and joy._

She forces herself to rest. Throughout the night, her dreams are a never-ending whirl of discontent, yet when she awakes the memories crumble like clay.


	2. A Wild Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shamhat discovers her limits, Waver begins to grow, and one Master exits the Grail War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's easy to forget how drastically Waver grows throughout Fate/Zero. (You could say you turned his bitterness/frustration toward Mage politics instead of anyone who looked at him funny.) Hopefully I did his brattier side justice!

“Wait, so, _where_ did you get this information?” Waver asks, as Shamhat flips channels on the TV in his room.

“From Archer,” she says, landing on a nature program about dolphins. She places the remote on her lap and turns to look at him.

Waver peers at her from his kneeling position on the bed, with a book of Magecraft bookmarked by his side. “And you trust him _why_?”

“Don’t misunderstand, I do not consider him an ally. As he’s not only a Heroic Spirit, but is Gilgamesh, the King of Uruk, he cannot lie. Even in life, his word was his bond.”

Waver doesn’t seem to understand at first. Then he says “Is he your King too?”

“Correct! In his later years, he ruled Uruk in a manner both just and kind; the city loved him and he shared that love.” She frowns. “But…something is strange about him now.”

“Going by what you just said, is he back to being an ass?”

She stares at Waver for a moment—then she figures it out and has to bite back a laugh at the mental image. “My king may be as stubborn as a mule, but no. It’s…difficult to explain.”

Waver sighs in aggravation and _smacks_ his hands onto his thighs. “Can you at least try, Caster?”

She replies after measuring her words for a long moment. “…I believe so, yes. King Gilgamesh was created by the gods as arbiter of humanity, meant to ensure the Age of Gods continued.”

“…You’re that old?” Waver claps a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, that was stupid,” he groans, his voice muffled.

She rests her chin in her hand and smiles slyly at him. “The secret to beauty is a life filled with pleasure and joy!”

“Just…continue, please,” Waver grumbles.

“As a child, though his mother ruled as Regent, he governed fairly and well, and was adored by all. When he came of age, he remained a benevolent king.” She smiles fondly. “I still remember the first harvest rite we performed together—but you need not know about that.”

Waver’s cheeks flush slightly, and he nods in agreement.

On the TV, the dolphins are cackling and crooning to each other. Shamhat switches it off to avoid being distracted.

“Yes, Uruk was the envy of all—for what other city could be blessed with a king as beautiful as he was wise? But…something changed soon after. I’m unsure what; I was a priestess of Inanna and did not visit the palace often. I began to notice the young men were being sent into the palace, first one by one, then in pairs. When they returned— _if_ they returned—they were worn to a raveling, barely able to enter their homes unassisted. The King had been challenging them to feats of strength for days on end, barely giving them time to rest. And that was only the beginning…”

The memories return to her: of sitting on the temple steps, watching a battered young man stumble at her feet, begging hoarsely for a place to rest so that his parents wouldn’t see his injuries. Families wailing in grief, over men who just a week prior had been alive and well.

Waver’s brows furrow, and his eyes turn glazed over with thought. “…The gods heard, and you helped out too. You went to a forest, found a creature just as strong as Gilgamesh, and shaped it into someone who could tame him.”

Her heart stops for a moment. “How did you know that?”

Waver flails about. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m not a creep! I-I read it somewhere before, I just forgot until now, okay?”

“I see, I see. And what happened in the tale you read?”

“Hmm…well, you kind of disappeared after Gilgamesh and that guy—”

“—Enkidu—”

“—Yeah, after Enkidu and Gilgamesh had their fight. Then…I only got so far, actually, I think there was a monster they killed…Humbaba? Yeah, he was in a cedar forest…”

It’s fascinating to see the story from the eyes of a youth thousands of years in the future. She listens and tries to ignore the bittersweet pain the story resurrects.

Suddenly he stops in the middle of his rendition. “Hey, what happened to you, anyway? Did you ever see Enkidu again?”

She’s touched by his question. “Yes, we never forgot each other! Enkidu visited often, and Gilgamesh would come too if he had a moment to spare. But we were often busy, so once Gilgamesh had the idea to slay Humbaba, our visits became…much rarer.”

Enkidu’s words echo in her mind: _“Are you_ sure _you cannot spare an hour or two, Shamhat? Gil said you know the marketplace’s secrets better than even he does!”_

 _“…Today is very busy, Enkidu. Forgive me. Perhaps another time!”_ Her harried response has been burned into her memory, no matter how much she wishes to forget.

“…Caster? You okay?”

Shamhat shakes herself free of those wearying thoughts and apologizes. “Our conversation made me nostalgic, that’s all. Forgive me if I worried you!”

Waver blinks. “Sure. Anyway, knowing Archer killed Assassin is useful—that means we can focus on our _other_ problem: figuring out what to do about Rider. I can’t find him _anywhere_ , it’s crazy!”

Shamhat purses her lips thoughtfully. “Hmm…perhaps he’s in hiding with his Master, waiting for another Servant to be eliminated?”

“That’s possible.” Waver’s head dips down as he sinks into thought. Then after a few moments, he looks up and snaps his fingers. “Wait, I’ve got an idea!”

“What is it?” she asks, as Waver leaps to his feet and rushes over to his backpack.

“It’s simple: if we scope out Fuyuki, we should find something. It’s boring just sitting around here, anyway.” He hoists his backpack over his shoulders, an almost arrogant grin on his face. “Turn to Spirit Form and let’s go, Caster!”

She complies, curious about her Master’s skills.

\---

Shamhat thought Waver’s whining yesterday was only due to being tired. As it turns out, he was attempting to behave himself. _Now_ she sees his true flaws, as they prowl Fuyuki’s shopping center. The only consolation is he’s whining _sotto voce_.

“I told you to be quiet! No, I already used plenty of money last night, I can’t get you CDs too. Can’t have you not doing your job. Hey, where were you just now? You left the music store _silver_?! What the hell’re you thinking? Ugh, _fine_ , I’ll lend you money. And I guess you can turn corporeal, too. While you’re slacking off, _I’ll_ do work.”

“… _Do_ you want my aid, Waver?”

“ _No_ , I’ll do it myself!”

Despite his claim of being bored indoors, Waver seems bound and determined to focus solely on the Grail War—even as fascinating and wondrous happenings surround him on all sides. _Well, Waver Velvet, if_ you _will not enjoy yourself, I shall!_

Shamhat keeps him in her sights as she strolls in and out of shops, chatting with the sellers and asking questions about their wares. From antiques protected behind glass cases to stuffed animals heaped atop each other like fruits, she admires it all without restraint. Her robes appear normal enough (or people are polite enough) to not comment.

When she chances upon a street performance (two people playing hand drums and a guitar respectively), her heart soars and she can’t help but dance. Her sandaled feet glide across the pavement in steps she knows well, and her hands clap to the pounding, lilting beat that envelops the shopping district in a cocoon of music. At first, passersby don’t seem to know what to make of it. But eventually a few of them split off from the rush of people and dance alongside her, some mimicking her movements, others following their own rhythm.

Her mind flashes on a memory: _Enkidu merrily leaping into the whirling fray of dancers at the marketplace, pulling her along with him. She taught him how to sway his hips like the reeds by the Euphrates, and lift his hands to embrace the sun. Gilgamesh sat and watched, praising their efforts and laughing whenever Enkidu’s hair got in his way (which was often)._

Back in the present, she hears others laughing and clapping, albeit with restrained enthusiasm. She seeks out those who stand uncertainly, their eyes filled with yearning to join in, and holds out her hand for them to take. A little girl takes Shamhat up on her offer, her brown twintails unfurling about her as she twirls. Her cheeks are flushed, and her sapphire-blue eyes shine with giddy delight.

For a blissful moment, as her happiness flows into others’ and enshrines the world, she is home again.

All too soon, the girl’s mother calls for her to return—Shamhat can sense an Enchanted item on the refined-looking woman, and wonders if they are related to a Master.

Then Waver pushes through the crowd and grabs Shamhat’s hand, yanking her out of the moment and back into business.

“Did you want to join us?” Shamhat asks, as Waver storms off with her in tow.

“No,” he snaps, his movements too stiff to be honest. “Come on, let’s get you out of here!”

\---

Shamhat finally has enough and corners Waver at the sidewalk they walked home on, when she was first summoned. For once, she’s too angry to pay heed to passing cars, assuming they’re driving too quickly to notice her appearance.

She turns corporeal and stares down her nose at Waver.

Naturally, Waver is mortified. “What the—change back, quick!”

“No,” she says coldly.

He looks at his Command Seals then back to her, his face pinched unpleasantly. “What’s _wrong_ with you? Why don’t you listen to me?”

“Because your actions have not _convinced_ me to listen to you.”

He lets out an aggravated sigh. “ _This_ again? Look, you’re a Servant, you can’t live without my mana, so just _listen_ to me and we’ll both be happy.”

“Is that so?”

Waver nods, that smug look returning again. “You’ve obeyed orders all your life, right? Why should this be any—”

“Waver Velvet.”

“…Yeah?” His expression freezes in a manner that’s almost comedic.

“Speak that way to me again, and I will leave you.”

Waver looks skeptical. “You don’t have Independent Action.”

She smiles and plucks the amulet from around his neck. “If you can do everything yourself, do you truly need me? I wonder.”

She hangs the amulet around her neck and strolls away from him, humming to herself. _Man of my heart, my beloved man, your allure is a sweet thing, as sweet as honey…_

“If you wish to apologize,” she says over her shoulder, “you must catch me.”

“…Wait. _Wait_ , dammit!”

She jumps over the guardrail with ease, her feet landing with a _thump_ on the forest ground. She walks onward. She doesn’t look back as she hears Waver struggling to follow her.

“Will I _let_ you catch me?” she calls, letting laughter fill her voice.

He growls in response—a flock of birds take flight at the sound.

She breathes in the warm forest air and ducks her head to avoid a hanging branch. The sunlight filters through the trees, dappling the ground before her in gold.

Waver’s footsteps _crunch_ on pine-needles, and she hears him trip on a root and curse before scrambling to his feet.

She moves a little faster, fueled by her boiling anger.

For hours, Shamhat leads Waver on a wild dance, through prickly bracken and over rock-dotted streams, sometimes ahead of him, sometimes behind him, always out of reach. While he threatens to use a Command Seal, he never does; and each time he collapses she sits and waits patiently for him to get back up again—she knows he will, and he does.

Around the second time he notices her waiting, Shamhat feels Waver’s emotions shift. He’s still angry, just as she is still angry, but it’s tempered now with self-deprecation and wry humor—close to his true nature, if she hazards a guess.

Finally, near twilight, she lets him catch her in the place she was summoned. It feels different this time, a tranquil, almost sacred place. The trees that nestle around the clearing are a sturdy bunch, and the grass grows long and wild, yet soft to the touch.

Shamhat bounds into the clearing like a gazelle, and Waver’s close behind. They’re both breathing heavily, chests heaving with exertion.

The sunlight catches in Waver’s hair like strings of topaz, and his eyes are glowing with intensity. He watches her movements, following her every sway and spin.

“You’re right handed,” he says, resting his back against a tree to catch his breath. “So you’ll go left to confuse me. You’re getting tired too, so you can’t keep this up forever.”

Shamhat grins and tilts her head to one side. “I never intended to. Well, are you rested?”

The chase resumes in closer quarters. She lets him get close, but she slips out of his hands like silk. Their shadows dance across the grass, splitting and merging by turns.

Finally he makes a mad lunge, kicking up dirt, and she lets herself be caught. They fall together, sprawled out side by side beneath the orange and violet sky.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, his sweaty hair clinging to his face and neck. “I haven’t been a good Master, have I?”

Shamhat finds that her opinion of Waver is once again in need of adjustment: he is still a whiny brat, tempestuous as any she’d encountered in Uruk’s marketplace, but this reaction and determination mark him as able to improve.

She rolls onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. “I will not coddle you in that regard. But…” She smiles. “…You have the makings of a Master, as I have said before. Don’t be discouraged!”

“I guess,” he says, looking utterly unconvinced. He sits up and curls in on himself, like a crab returning to its shell. “I still don’t get why you don’t listen to me, though.”

Shamhat furrows her brow. “There’s a simple answer to that. Review how you treated me previously.”

Waver’s hair nearly obscures his nod. After a period of thoughtful silence, she can see his ears flushing pink.

“…I’ve been treating you like a tool. Is that it?”

“Exactly! Lancer’s Master would doubtless still be pondering the question by now.”

Waver’s chuckle sounds far less forced than usual. Shamhat considers that a victory.

“Do you want some water?” Waver asks, pulling off his backpack and rummaging through it.

“Yes, and thank you.” While the plastic bottle feels strangely sticky against her fingers, the water inside is cool and pleasant.

She’s about to continue their talk when she senses something strange. It’s prana, to be sure, but it feels… _wrong_ , like a calf forbidden from its mother’s milk, or a falcon with a broken wing. The hair on the back of her neck prickles with distaste, and she’s on her feet in an instant.

“What’s wrong?” Waver asks, standing as well, his brows pinched in concern. “Is it another Servant?”

“I believe so. But something is amiss—as if this Servant doesn’t wish to be here.”

“Really? That’d be unprecedented for the Grail War, from what I read about it.”

“And what if the Servant and Master are ill-matched?”

“Dunno. But the Grail wouldn’t pick a cruel Master: ‘I shall be all the good in the world’ is in the incantation for a _reason_ , y’know.”

Shamhat sees clearly his willingness to prove himself to her. “I see. Well, shall we go have a look?”

Waver’s nervousness returns, and his fingers dig into his trembling arms. “Now I can sense it, too. It feels… _huge_ …are you sure you can handle it, Caster?”

Shamhat smiles, removes her amulet and returns it to him in one fluid motion. “We shall see, won’t we? And if we cannot, we shall retreat!”

Waver looks at the amulet in his hand, seemingly measuring his options. Then he pulls the cord over his head, careful to not let it tangle.

After a little more fidgeting, he glances away with flushed cheeks and grumbles: “You…you can pick me up, I guess.”

Shamhat grins and scoops him up without delay.

\---

It doesn’t take them long to find the source of the prana. Waver spots someone with red hair carrying a bundle into the sewers, and Shamhat follows it. When they land at the sewer’s colossal entrance, they can hear someone’s echoing humming.

“They appear not to notice us,” Shamhat whispers to Waver as she sets him down. “Shall we go in?”

Waver gulps, but despite his fear he nods. “B-Better now than never, right?”

She nods in return; they creep inside, leaving a dusk-shrouded world for an unknown territory. Before Shamhat can ask for a light, Waver has already created one—a bright green pebble that he tosses into the darkness to illuminate it.

“Fascinating,” Shamhat says, but he waves it off.

“This is the most basic of basics.” He steps forward into the light, despite his trembling knees. “C’mon, the sooner we get this done, the better!”

For a long while, they are surrounded by eerie silence; the murky sewer water barely moves. Shamhat listens intently for any strange sounds, but now even the humming can’t be heard. It feels as if they found the path to the Underworld, just as Inanna had travelled, yet unlike Her they have no guide, or strength to return them to the realm of the living.

Waver, strangely, isn’t turning around and running as she expected. Rather, he seems determined to grope his way forward into the foul-smelling blackness as if this will save him from some unknown enemy. His lights cast flickering, ominous shadows over him, making him appear caressed by darkness.

 _Perhaps we were overambitious. If I guessed wrong, and Rider_ is _on good terms with his Master—_

They reach a point where small, reddish-orange lights are mounted on the walls around them, letting them see. It only makes Shamhat feel queasy—they have nowhere to hide, save for in the bile-green water…

Shamhat stops and grabs Waver’s shoulder, pulling him back. “Waver,” she whispers, releasing her hold. “Do you hear footsteps?”

“…I-I think? It’s not Rider, though.”

The footsteps draw closer, and Shamhat hears the jaunty tune heard previously accompanying the monotonous _thumps._ It’s a young man, judging by the tenor voice—he doesn’t sound much older than Waver. He must be the person they followed in here.

She’s soon proven right: the young man has red hair, vibrant clothes that bring to mind festivities, and black eyes like endless yawning caves. His easygoing smile only brings her more disquiet.

The red mark on his hand, in the shape of a cringing figure, confirms her suspicions: this is Rider’s Master. _And he’s already used two Command Seals…_

“Hey there,” Rider’s Master says, flapping a slim hand in greeting. “Are you guys lost?”

It’s not an easy question to answer. Neither Shamhat nor Waver bothers replying.

Unfortunately, Rider’s Master doesn’t seem deterred. “It happens to the best of us, right? But if you’re on a date…” He winks at Waver like they’re old friends. “…This really isn’t the place for it!”

“Nonono, it’s not like that,” Waver stammers, waving his hands as if to ward the idea off. “We’re just—uh—”

Rider’s Master turns his gaze to Shamhat, looking utterly baffled. “He’s really shy, huh? To get a pretty girl like you, he’s awful lucky!”

Shamhat knows well the difference between an admirer of beauty and a lover of destruction. “You know,” she says, as she drapes a possessive arm about Waver’s shoulders and smiles coldly, “I believe we _are_ lost. Good evening, and farewell.”

“So soon?” Rider’s Master whips out a switchblade, opening it with a _snick._ That smile hasn’t left his face.

In a blur of motion Waver reacts: he flings another light-pebble and hits Rider’s Master in the face.

The green light envelops those black eyes. He screams in agony—Shamhat can see his skin bubbling. But he’s determined to attack; his switchblade swings through the air wildly.

“Caster,” Waver gasps, the blade _whooshing_ past his ear, “Go fight Rider—I’ll handle him!”

Shamhat knows that said order is Waver’s adrenaline talking, but frankly in a sewer canal this narrow and next to water she’s in the way. And Waver knows the switchblade’s strengths and weaknesses well; he’s always just out of reach.

_I trust you to be safe, Waver—do not disappoint me!_

She jumps to the opposite side of the canal and breaks into a run. Her blood roars in her ears and overwhelms the sounds of Waver’s fight. She hones in on Rider’s prana in the distance.

The trail stops in a large, cavernous room that reminds her of the palace meeting hall. The place is illuminated by more small red-orange lights, but just barely. She can hear harsh, labored breathing that quickens the closer she gets. The smell of dried blood wafts from the huge, rising and falling lump in the center of the room.

“Rider…?” Strangely, her voice doesn’t echo.

“Oh, good,” Rider rumbles. “You’re not the lunatic.”

Nervous laughter bubbles from her throat. “He’s busy fighting my Master.” She peers at the huge form before her in the dim light. “Are you— _unwell_ , Rider?”

She catches sight of a theatrical-looking red cloak, decorated with gold flames.

“Oh, don’t worry, he seems to not find me worthy of pain.”

“That is small consolation, I’m afraid.” Shamhat glances around the hall, trying to found that little bundle.

“Do not look for the child,” Rider orders, his voice tinged with weary sadness. “It will only pain you.”

She decides to take his word for it, her stomach roiling. “If I may ask—what did he use those Command Seals for?”

“He was a quick study—he figured out what those accursed Command Seals can do, and ordered me to help him capture children. When I set them free, he compelled me to keep them from running off and…well, you see the results.” How Rider can sound almost _casual_ about this is beyond Shamhat.

Instinctively, she wishes to alleviate Rider’s suffering. The desire settles against her heart and tugs, like a fisherman’s hook.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks, for want of anything to say.

“Hmm? Oh, sure. Kill that lunatic for me, and tell me where the Church is.” Rider chuckles darkly. “I demand a refund.”

She agrees, and after giving Rider directions helps him to his feet. Fortunately, he isn’t injured, merely weary, and can stand on two feet without assistance. (He’s too gigantic for her to support his weight.)

They run back the way Shamhat came, with Rider in the lead—he knows this area well. She doesn’t dwell on why, obvious as it is.

When they reach Waver, she’s pleased to see he _did_ survive. He’s bedraggled and with a scrape on his cheek, but otherwise unharmed. The right pocket of his trousers is rumpled, as if he quickly replaced something. When Shamhat looks closer, she can see faint distress behind his eyes.

She runs to him and stops just shy of resting her hands on his shoulders. Her hands linger in the air uselessly before retreating to her sides.

“Are you alright?” she asks, though she already guesses the answer.

Waver jerks a thumb behind him in a gesture meant to be casual, but instead comes off as mechanical. “…He fell in the water. I think he hit his head on the concrete.” He states this without emotion.

Rider speaks up from behind Shamhat: “So, you are the one who freed me from my vile ‘Master’? You have my thanks, boy!”

Shamhat turns her head to look at him, at his impressive figure, russet hair and beard, and eyes so like Gilgamesh’s. Unlike her King, however, Rider’s good nature doesn’t have to be coaxed out of him; he looks at them with a merry grin and a gaze warm with relief.

Waver reacts to Rider without the inflated ego Shamhat expected—instead, he seems awestruck by the Heroic Spirit before him. There may be tears at the corner of Waver’s eyes too, as despite Rider’s relaxed demeanor he has clearly not been treated well: dried blood and grime coat his armor and cloak, and dark circles surround his eyes.

Rider takes notice. He sighs in annoyance and rubs the back of his head. “Seriously, you two, I got off rather lucky in the end! I will mourn those lost, and wish them a safe journey to the Underworld. As for myself, my call was answered, and now I can find a worthy Mage to call ‘Master’.” He grins at Shamhat, his eyes bright with a light she knows intimately. “ _And_ I got rescued by a beautiful woman, what more can I ask for?”

She remembers Enkidu’s blessing and laughs softly, playing with her hair. “ _Surely_ there must be something else you can ask for…”

Waver interrupts them. “Hey, hey—don’t start flirting in a place like this! Besides, it’s night, and other Servants are out hunting.”

“True,” Shamhat says, her heart sinking slightly. It’s soon buoyed by the knowledge that Waver is merely embarrassed, and means well. “Do you remember the route to the Church, Rider?”

Rider nods. “I can give you two a lift, if you wish.”

“Thank you for offering, but unfortunately we are still at war.” Shamhat smiles in apology. “But perhaps another time!”

Rider laughs like thunder. “I will hold you to that! Until then…”

He turns to Spirit Form in a flurry of crimson motes, his joy palpable even after he leaves.

As soon as Rider’s gone, Waver collapses to his knees, breathing heavily.

Shamhat crouches by his side, her heart pounding. “Are you hurt? Can I be of aid?”

Waver shakes his head slowly. “It—it’s fine. Just…the adrenaline wore off. And…” His voice shivers and cracks like worn pottery. “…I nearly killed a person. I _could’ve_ killed him—”

“—To protect yourself,” she says, as she has said to many in the past. “You did not wish to die, and so you fought for your life.”

“It happened so fast, I don’t know what I—”

“Sssh,” Shamhat whispers, and wraps her arms around Waver’s shivering body.

They stay like that for a while, in the damp, dreary dimness, until he finally takes a shuddering breath and stands. She follows suit.

“Thanks, Caster,” he says, his words soft with sincerity.

She smiles. “I would be remiss to let you drown in self-loathing. Life is far too short and beautiful for that.”

As they return to the open air and out of the sewers, Shamhat thinks she sees something gliding away—but when she turns to look, she sees only shadows. _That is just as well. It is not worth lingering here._

\---

Just before they enter their base, Waver says something startling:

“Hey…you like beer, right? The Mackenzie’s have some stocked, I think.”

Shamhat’s momentarily stunned. She takes in Waver, standing uncertain in the light of the Mackenzie’s house and the moon in tandem. He’s looking at her with an inscrutable expression, like she’s a puzzle he _thinks_ he has the piece to but isn’t certain.

His brows pinch. “What, is my fly showing or something?” Now he’s back to form.

“No, not at all.” She pushes open the gate and smiles. “Your offer was merely unexpected. Thank you!”

Waver seems unsure of how to react toward gratitude; Shamhat only hopes he understands it’s the genuine article.

They pass through the Bounded Field and enter the warm, inviting home—and stumble across both Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie sitting at the well-stocked dinner table, staring at them both in surprise.

Waver looks ready to walk out the door and never return. “…Uh…uh…”

The Mackenzie’s are a little quicker to reorient themselves.

“…Who is this, Waver dear?” Mrs. Mackenzie asks, her smile uncertain.

Shamhat steps forward and bows politely. “Good evening. My name is Shula—please pardon my intrusion! I met your grandson in town today, and we commiserated over being tourists here.”

It feels uncomfortable to lie, but then again the truth would be far too surreal. She quickly waves away the idea that she and Waver are lovers—Rider’s Master was enough—and soon finds herself and Waver sitting at the dinner table, partaking in delicious steamed rice, grilled fish, and other savory delights.

Shamhat can’t help but praise Mrs. Mackenzie’s cooking, while Mr. Mackenzie heartily agrees with her assessments.

“She gets better every year, I tell you,” he says, grinning at his wife’s humble pride. “You see, dear, even Miss Shula thinks so!”

Waver nods stiffly over his cup of tea, the steam whirling about his face and causing his cheeks to flush. Yet again, he doesn’t seem to be truly enjoying his meal. He finally slows down once he notices Shamhat looking at him, which is a distinct improvement in her eyes.

But nothing compares to the beer (despite not being as potent as in her time). Delicious, chilled alcohol with foam that tickles her tongue and heats her belly. She eagerly downs one pint, then another, and attempts to teach the others a drinking song to little linguistic success. Regardless, she has gained two of her fondest pleasures today, and the world is joyously hazy.

It feels as if she and Waver have taken a step forward in their path to the Grail today, and her heart feels lighter than it did this morning. She pretends to leave and turns into Spirit Form, content to watch Waver interact with his “grandparents”. It’s awkward, but in a sweet way.

When Waver stumbles up to bed, there’s a distinct easiness to his movements that pleases her.

\---

That night, Shamhat dreams of Gilgamesh and Enkidu.

_Gilgamesh and Enkidu’s battle had concluded, and Shamhat had managed to witness it all—through Inanna’s blessing or mere luck, she could not say._

_As Gilgamesh embraced Enkidu on the sandy ground, his beautiful robes tattered beyond repair, Shamhat cautiously picked her way through the rubble toward them. She avoided shattered pottery and side-stepped an overturned cart. Her eyes were transfixed by Enkidu’s hair, so much like her own, spilling over Gilgamesh’s fingers. It was like looking at another her, through a mirror-world where she could look at violence and laugh. Something bitter bubbled in her stomach, and she hated it._

_The bitterness eased away when Enkidu sat up and turned to look at her. He was flushed with victory and his hair was plastered to his exposed, sweat-slick back and chest. He beamed and waved her over as if they had been apart for years._

_“It was as you said, Shamhat! Look at my new friend, is he not wonderful?”_

_Shamhat looked at Gilgamesh, who was just as disheveled as Enkidu, but equally pleased; his eyes were bright with joy as she had not seen in ages._

_“Yes,” she said, for it was true._

_Gilgamesh was the first to stand, heedless of his bruised near-nakedness. He helped Enkidu up, and Enkidu surged up to meet him like the tide. They turned their attention to her not as an interloper, but as someone of obvious worth—the closest to “friend” Shamhat had ever been when it came to her King._

_“We shall have a bath,” Gilgamesh ordered casually._

_Gilgamesh led the way, and Enkidu and Shamhat followed. They climbed the sun-warmed steps that led to the palace then left the battering heat for the cool interior. The servants bustled around them like worried bees, startling Enkidu and making him growl low in his throat, but Gilgamesh waved them off. Shamhat explained the engraved images on the wall to Enkidu as they walked, from the origins of the world to tales of Lugalbanda, Gilgamesh’s father. Their three shadows flickered on the sunlit walls._

_Gilgamesh finally stopped before the door to the baths, and leisurely stripped himself of what little remained of his garments. Enkidu followed suit, though Shamhat noted fondly that he was very careful about her robe—he folded it in mimicry of her._

_Enkidu glanced at her with curious eyes. “Are you nervous, Shamhat?”_

_She shook her head and disrobed with a smile, the cool linen sliding softly against her skin as it pooled on the floor. Her body was still afire with excitement after the uninhibited battle she’d just witnessed, and knew that Gilgamesh and Enkidu felt the same._

_The sunlight peered in through the red latticed windows, illuminating the room in dappled yellow. Outside, Shamhat could hear the citizens of Uruk slowly returning to their normal lives, no doubt gossiping among each other about the fight._

_She watched as Enkidu rushed into the baths, prowling around the tiled floor and watching as the hot water bubbled up from the aqueducts. His bare feet_ slapped _against the stone in a simple rhythm, and his reflection shivered in the clear water._

_“This bath is bigger than the shepard’s,” Enkidu said. He looked up at Gilgamesh and grinned with sharp white teeth. “Yet the watering hole was bigger still!”_

_Shamhat couldn’t help but laugh._

_Gilgamesh shrugged one shoulder in a ripple of muscle. “In that case, I have some pets to acquaint you with later.”_

_Enkidu beamed and continued his exploration._

_Gilgamesh leaned against the wall, a small smile on his face as Enkidu took notice of the huge reed baskets of flower petals and sniffed each curiously. “I suppose the baths can be intriguing, if one’s unaccustomed to it.”_

_Shamhat smiled as handfuls of red petals floated through the air, landing with sharp_ plips _in the water. “This is a luxury. Not that you would know what that is,” she teased._

_“Perhaps not. But I have an inkling now.”_

_With that, Gilgamesh padded to the stone steps that led into the pool, his fingers trailing through the water. Apparently he found the temperature satisfactory, and slid into the bath in one precise gliding movement._

_“Well?” he asked, as Enkidu and Shamhat watched him. “While I enjoy admiration of my gorgeous body, I_ did _invite you two here for a reason. Get in quickly, before the water cools.”_

_Shamhat laughed and stepped forward—_

—And wakes up with a gnawing feeling in her heart, the chill night air crawling up her back. In the distance, she can sense Gilgamesh’s prana, a restless pulsing that beckons her closer.


	3. A Rain-Drenched Battlefield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shamhat and Waver make plans for attack, but soon find themselves in a battle of wits instead. A tempting offer is made.

The next day, after lunch, Waver has more news for Shamhat.

She’s been amusing herself listening to cassette tapes on Mrs. Mackenzie’s cassette player, dancing around the yard or lending her assistance. To keep things from being boring, she asks Mrs. Mackenzie about the musicians; she and her husband have been to many fascinating places, including Queen’s famous Live Aid concert.

When Waver comes to Shamhat, the Mackenzies are out shopping, and she’s dancing on the porch to leisurely jazz music. Her movements are slow and delicate to match; in the distance gray clouds are rolling, and she can smell rain.

Waver closes the front door and leans against it, his hair tilting across his cheek. “I got some news about Lancer.”

Shamhat stops mid-dance step, and sinks into a rocking chair. There’s a respectful distance between them: close enough to converse, but with enough space that neither feels hemmed in. She turns down the music slightly, to avoid being distracted.

“Is it good news or bad?” she asks.

“Both, I guess,” Waver’s eyes glaze over with thought. “First, I was right that Lancer’s Master is Lord El-Melloi. Last night, he and someone on Saber’s team had a fight—the Fuyuki Hyatt blew up, who knows who’s paying for _that_ —and it seems like El-Melloi’s in critical condition.”

“Is that the good news?”

Waver grins wryly. “Kind-of—I wish I could’ve seen his face! But there’s…a problem. Just because El-Melloi’s in critical condition doesn’t mean he’s _out_ ; Lancer is still in the war, and that means we need to be on our guard against him. One Command Seal to kill us on sight, and we’d be toast.”

Shamhat hums thoughtfully. A bird flies by with a worm in its mouth. “Well, in that case, we must take out Lancer before he can attack us. Such a shame, he seemed so pleasant!”

“ _He_ might be, but his Master sure isn’t.” Waver looks up at Shamhat with a curious expression. “Think you could get Lancer drunk again?”

“I cannot say. He will be prepared for my Alcoholic Fruit, but as he finds harming unarmed people distasteful, he may find inebriation a welcome relief. Speaking of being unarmed—what abilities do you possess, Waver?”

Waver’s scowl returns, and he glances away awkwardly. “Well, uh, if you’re talking about Magecraft, I’m pathetic. I can hypnotize people a little—that’s how we’re staying here. And I can do really basic alchemy, as you’ve seen: little lights, mostly, and I can trace mana in the water—”

“—You can?” Shamhat leans forward excitedly; the rocking chair _creaks_ as if sharing her enthusiasm. “That will be of great help; please, show me how!”

Waver is literally taken aback by her reaction—he bumps up against the door, hands stretched out as if she’s an overflowing pitcher that needs to be suppressed. “Calm down, its not _that_ flashy! Just basic chemistry and a little patience…”

“And yet, that is a talent others do not have.” She smiles at him and holds out a hand, open palmed, her fingers slightly curled. “I suspect you have misrepresented yourself to me, Waver Velvet.”

“…I didn’t _lie_ ,” Waver says sullenly, lowering his arms only to fold them over his chest like a barrier.

“I never said you did,” Shamhat replies, keeping her voice soft and reassuring. She retracts her hand, letting it rest on her lap. “Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that you underestimate your own talents.”

“How can I underestimate what doesn’t exist?” Waver’s snappish tone contradicts his words—he seems to realize it, too, as he quickly simmers down. “A-Anyway, there’s more news besides that.”

“Please continue, then.”

“It looks like Berserker tried to gang up on Lancer and Saber at once shortly after El-Melloi went down—kind of a stupid move, but then Berserker’s talent’s in breaking things, not planning. That didn’t work, so they’re out of the war. Surprisingly, Lancer and Saber didn’t resume their fight—I _think_ Saber might be injured, but her Master may be good at Healing Magecraft, who knows?”

Shamhat rests her chin in her hand. “So are you suggesting we attack Saber first, before Lancer? That could be doable.”

“…Actually, no. No _way_. The Saber Class is the best there is, stats-wise. And if _El-Melloi_ was defeated—we’d be toast. Let’s focus on Lancer first!”

Warmth tickles her heart. “Are you concerned for me after all?”

“Why shouldn’t I be? You’ve got all the strength of a pamphlet!”

“Oh? Then we are a matched pair indeed!”

“Hmph. I’ll grow stronger, just you watch!”

Shamhat teases Waver a little more (he puffs up so endearingly, how can she resist?) until he seems more at ease. Then she asks:

“Perhaps we should ask Rider for aid? _He_ seems strong enough to face many foes at once!”

Waver shakes his head. “Nah, that feels like we’re using him. And besides, he probably doesn’t have much mana left—it’d just be a waste.”

Shamhat sighs and shrugs before gliding to her feet. “Very well. Before nightfall, we should use that ‘simple’ mana-detecting alchemy of yours and find El-Melloi. Then I can finally see you face a worthy opponent!”

Waver’s cheeks flush a brilliant scarlet. He looks ready to smile—but then he squints suspiciously. “You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”

“No, not at all!” She puts a finger to her lips. “I have a Noble Phantasm that will aid you well in the battle to come.”

“Unless you can launch ungraded term papers at El-Melloi, I don’t see what’ll help.”

“Hmm…it will definitely be something more substantial than that.” She looks him over. “You have a weapon as well.”

Waver’s hand instinctively freezes over the right pocket of his trousers. “How did you know…?!”

“Violent ruffians existed in my era as well, unfortunately. And you knew how far back to move against that switchblade. Lastly, you would not enter a Grail War with _only_ defensive techniques.”

“… _Oh._ Well, you’re not wrong.”

Waver pulls out a pocketknife and opens it with the press of a button on the side. The blade looks normal from the point to the middle, where it becomes notched instead. It looks very strange to Shamhat’s eyes—she cannot tell if it’s meant for defense, cutting open boxes, or both. Regardless, it definitely qualifies as a weapon.

“Please, show me how you wield it,” Shamhat says, stepping back.

“Okay—I’m not exactly an expert, though.”

“That is quite alright!”

Waver nods and begins. He’s right, he relies less on his blade and more on his footwork, but his slashes _whoosh_ through the air in quick, small arcs and jabs, keeping his vital regions protected. While it’s clear he has no love for killing, he can buy himself some time to escape: in the end, that’s all Shamhat asks for.

“Thank you,” Shamhat says, clapping politely. “You may cease now.”

“Why’d you want to see that, anyway?” Waver asks, making the blade _click_ back inside the handle.

“That helps me know what to enhance,” Shamhat replies simply. “I cannot give you the strength to kill a Servant, obviously, but at the very least I can make you more durable and quick-footed.” She frowns and rubs her chin. “But, in the end…perhaps those are less important. What would _you_ want in a battle, Waver?”

She expects strength, or something overly-complicated like the ability to reverse time. Instead, she receives a far more telling answer:

“I’d want a clear mind.” He says this without doubt.

“An interesting option. Why?”

Waver’s expression turns pained for a moment. Then he closes his eyes, and pulls himself free of whatever cruel memories tried to chain him down.

“When I’m against El-Melloi, I always lose focus—he knows just what to say to make me falter and give up. I try again and again, but…” His fingers clench into fists. “…In a fight to the death, I don’t have _time_ to try again. I’ve only got one chance, so I _have_ to take it!”

Shamhat’s mind flashes to a memory-dream, of Waver slowly picking his battered body off the floor, his eyes dark with rage and pain.

She slowly walks over to him and holds out her hand. After a lull of consideration, she claps him on the shoulder.

Waver blinks in surprise, but this time he doesn’t push her away.

“…I understand, Waver. Very well, I shall give you that chance.”

“You—you can?” He looks at her as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“Yes,” she says, her heart glowing with determination. “I shall do my best.”

\---

Now that Waver has a concrete plan and a mystery to solve, Shamhat notes that his brattier side begins to withdraw. It’s replaced with intense focus and the willingness to try multiple different options: Shamhat tries to search for Lancer’s prana signature, but it’s beyond her reach. Waver tries to use mice-eyes again, and while he does find last night’s battlefield, the traces of mana in the air are too old to be useable. (And Berserker’s bloodlust dominates everything to begin with.)

In a pleasant reversal of norms, Waver _asks_ if Shamhat can go down to the river and collect water samples, which she gladly does.

The rainclouds are still gathering, which gives her time to work. She teleports all over the city, made keenly aware of her waxing and waning stability. She carefully scoops each glass vial into the water one at a time, stoppers them tightly with corks. Once she’s finished, she teleports back without shattering any of the vials.

“Thanks,” Waver says, nodding in satisfaction. “You even did them in order!”

“You’re most welcome.” Shamhat can’t help but beam at the praise. She peers at the strange, wooden candleholder-esque contraption sitting on Waver’s desk. “And now, those vials go in there?”

“That’s right.” Waver carefully takes each vial and places them in the holders one by one, his movements practiced. “This makes it easier to see the chemical reactions…”

Shamhat sits on the bed and watches Waver work, as he picks out droppers, mixes things and mutters to himself in a cocoon of activity.

He looks over his shoulder at her, a slight flush on his cheeks. “Caster, can you stop staring at me? It’s distracting.”

“O-Oh, forgive me!” She turns her attention to the window, where raindrops are slowly beginning to collect.

“Apology accepted.” Waver gets back to work, now holding one vial up to the light. “…Hey, want me to explain what I’m doing?”

“Yes, please.”

As Waver explains how mana-traces tend to linger in water, Shamhat discovers another talent he possesses: he’s an excellent teacher. While he puffs up with excessive pride over his accomplishments, he quickly mellows out, and explains carefully without being condescending.

Despite wanting to outright recommend Waver become a tutor, Shamhat knows full well what his reaction will be. _He is the contrarian sort, even when the suggestion is a good one. And yet, he’s improving…_

So instead she says “Thank you for the explanation. It was very entertaining!”

Waver’s smile is a fragile, fleeting sight, but already Shamhat can’t wait to see it again. All too soon, however, he’s back to business: he picks up one of the vials near the end and shows off its rust-red tinge.

“See, Caster? This one came from near the seaside park—that’s got to be where Lancer’s Master is.”

Shamhat can’t help but laugh. “And to think, all this time we never thought to return there!”

Waver frowns at the vial. “Yeah, ‘cause it’s practically designed to trap enemies.” He glances at the clock, and his expression clouds further. “…Oh, well, at least we know the terrain. If we go now—oh, wait, the rain’ll get in the way.”

Shamhat thinks of Waver slipping on drenched asphalt and breaking his neck. She rubs her arms and forces the image away. “What Elemental affinity does El-Melloi have?”

“Water and Wind,” Waver says automatically. “He’s a genius at it, too. Once, he showed off his Mystic Code Volumanen Hydrargyrum—it’s a massive ball made of ten liters of mercury—”

“—Wait, _wait._ ” The Grail’s knowledge suddenly provides her with mercury’s traits, and a chill crawls up her spine. “If El-Melloi carries around a toxic chemical, I _refuse_ to let you near it. Memory loss would be the least of your problems!”

“What do you— _oh._ ” From Waver’s expression, he appears to have finally realized his professor’s dangerousness. “But wait, if it’s solid…but mercury can evaporate in the air, too.”

Suddenly their plan seems impossible to achieve. Disappointment settles over the room like a miasma, weighing them down.

After a long, miserable pause, Shamhat finally has an idea. “You said El-Melloi was gravely injured. If so—who is Lancer’s Master now?”

“…Probably a surrogate; El-Melloi’s an arrogant asshole, but he’s not an idiot. Unfortunately.”

She chuckles. “Well, that simplifies things. If I recall correctly, Mages do not lend their Mystic Codes even to allies—we may be safe from that mercury after all!”

She stands and stretches, ready to leave, but Waver holds up a hand in warning.

“Wait, let’s use your Noble Phantasm now. We won’t have time in the middle of a fight.”

“Very well.” She smiles. “Oh, if you hear music in a moment, your mind isn’t playing tricks on you. Consider it part of my powers.”

“…Okay. That’s good to know.” Waver stands awkwardly, poised as if _he_ is the one about to dance and not her.

She takes a deep breath, slowly lifting her arms above her head. “Behold, the priestess’ praise to her goddess, and the answering blessing: _Ars Inanna._ ”

She knows the song and steps by heart, a sensual dance like silk in a summer breeze. She sings of Inanna, the morning and the evening star, for whom battle is a dance and love a bedchamber dripping with honey.

Though the world has changed far beyond her ken, Shamhat feels the power of her vocation swelling through her, from head to toe. The floorboards creak and quiver as if in remembrance of their lives as fertile trees. Shamhat’s body becomes a swaying, rippling thing, her bones and muscles honed on the task before her.

Finally, she kneels and offers up a prayer:

_Inanna, give this young man a calm mind in the battle to come!_

_Let his heart be steady, his eyes fixed on his goal like a lover returning to his beloved’s embrace_

_But if danger strikes, let him know when to flee, give him the gazelle’s senses and the cheetah’s speed!_

It’s short, but it will have to do.

Despite the gods being long gone from this world, Shamhat feels the power bubbling up from within herself like a stream; she watches Waver stumble back, clutching his chest and breathing in ragged bursts. As she resumes her dance, she sees Waver’s posture adjust as if to a mantle on his shoulders, his gaze sharper than before.

When she finishes, hugging herself and trembling with the thrill of _finally_ tapping into her vocation again, the room is silent for a moment.

Waver glances down at himself then at her, his lips parted in surprise. “Holy shit,” he says, and claps a hand over his mouth.

Shamhat laughs unabashedly. “Well,” she says, once only her shaking shoulders show her mirth, “how do you feel, Waver?”

“Like I just finished studying for a test and know I can ace it. Or like I just finished my thesis.” Waver blinks in surprise, as if he hadn’t expected those descriptions to appear so quickly on his lips. He grins. “This is _awesome!_ ”

Shamhat grins back. “Enjoy it while you can—it will only last for an hour at most.” She sighs and brushes her hair back from her face. “A pity—once, that would have worked for a week.”

“An hour, huh? Then let’s go.”

\---

The seaside park is deserted as the unrelenting downpour continues. Thankfully, Waver brought an umbrella, and they take turns holding it above each other’s heads. Shamhat enjoys the _rap-a-tap_ sound the rain makes as it hits the fabric; it’s as if they are carrying a giant leaf to shield them from the onslaught. _At least the wind is manageable._

She tunes out the sounds of rain and Waver’s feet scuffing the wet dirt, and tries to sense Lancer. Perhaps the surrounding ambience is confusing Shamhat, perhaps they aren’t nearby at all. Even the Bounded Field is gone, now—and that fact manages to unnerve her more than anything else.

She takes deep breaths, forces herself to relax: _If anything goes awry, I can teleport us away from here. Hopefully._

A moment later, she realizes why Lancer can’t be sensed: he and his Master have vanished from the world. She looks to Waver, who seems to have come to the same conclusion. He’s shivering even in his bright red raincoat, and the umbrella trembles with him.

“C-Can you sense anything else, Caster?”

“…I’m afraid not.” She pauses. “Perhaps—perhaps I sense another’s Magecraft, but it is too faint to know for sure.”

“Ugh, in this weather we’d be better off just heading back…get ourselves books and hot chocolate…”

Shamhat suddenly catches something: another flickering shadow in the corner of her vision. This time she can clearly see a bone-white mask with unfathomable slits for eyes.

“Waver, look!”

Waver’s eyes follow her outstretched hand. They widen in surprise. “ _Assassin_ …?!”

Shamhat steels herself for battle. “We have all been deceived.”

She doesn’t need to look around her to see that other Assassins are arriving, in a myriad of sizes and guises. _We are surrounded. But…_

Waver already has a light-pebble in his hand. She squeezes her eyes shut.

The air arcs around her as she feels Waver’s arm throw the pebble—

_Bang._

The Assassins cry out in pain, but not all of them are blinded. When Shamhat cracks open her eyes, she sees two of them rushing toward her and Waver while the rest escape. _How fitting: shadows of a woman and a youth to match their victims._

She’s forced to use one of the items she created: a stone-bladed dagger she remembers one of her fellow priests carried. The bloodstone on the pommel gleams faintly in the dim light. The leather handle turns slippery in her sweaty grip, but she doesn’t let go.

The good news about the Assassin Class is that their strength is about equal to a Caster’s Magic. Their daggers clash and sparks _hiss_ around them. Behind her, she can hear Waver narrowly dodging the other Assassin’s attacks. She knows that she can’t beat Assassin in a fight—but she’s willing to try. She glides and leaps out of harm’s way, her feet sinking in the cold, moist earth.

Waver rolls out of the way of his Assassin’s knife. The blade sinks into the ground like a stone.

He hefts his umbrella and _thwacks_ it against Asassin’s head—but it shatters into useless metal and fabric.

She realizes her mistake earlier: blessing Waver with the knowledge of when to flee means nothing if the foe _keeps_ you from fleeing.

 _At this rate, we will lose the Grail War and our lives. There must be_ something _I can do…!_

She tries another tack: Alcoholic Fruit. Her words are not as eloquent as usual—she’s barely aware of what she’s saying. Something about the beer she had last night.

But the clumsy babble has an unexpected effect: The Assassins freeze and clutch their heads. They groan as if pained then flee in plumes of black fog.

Waver turns to look at her, blinking in disbelief (or to blink the rain from his eyes). He’s still holding the handle of the umbrella, as if his very touch will reassemble it.

“…What the _hell_ was that?” he asks, panting for breath.

Shamhat can only shrug. She shivers with clammy coldness, and wraps her arms around herself in a desperate attempt to get warm.

“Let’s go,” Waver says, the _squelch_ of his shoes competing against the relentless rain.

“Yes, if we visit the Church—”

“—No.” Waver’s eyes are obscured by his hood. “The Church gave Assassin’s Master asylum, so they must be in on it!”

At the words _in on it_ he dumps the umbrella handle in a black plastic trashcan with more force than necessary.

She can feel his annoyance as if it were her own. “But why would they do that?”

“Because someone’s a friend of the Church, _obviously._ ” His shoes leave ugly brown marks on the stone paths. “I don’t know about you, but I want some hot chocolate.”

“That _does_ sound delicious,” she says. “May I teleport us back?”

“Let’s go to the Shopping District—we can dry off there and buy a new umbrella.”

When they arrive at the mall, the place is quieter than before, despite the weather. She and Waver may be more bedraggled than the other shoppers, but they don’t attract much attention.

Shamhat senses something: barely-perceptible mana, trailing up into the top floor of the mall. _It feels…familiar._ It’s an unexpected stroke of luck, but she’s too weary to question it.

“Is it a Servant?” Waver asks, seeing her expression.

She quickly finds the answer: “No, a Master—the one whose Magic I sensed. Shall we go?”

Waver’s lips quirk into a smile, and he follows Shamhat up the escalator and through the labyrinthine areas, the flickering mana beckoning them onward. All the while, Shamhat notices that while patrons are leaving one by one, and the lights are growing dim, the mana pulse grows more insistent.

Waver bares his teeth in a nervous grin. “Looks like Assassin’s Master got wind of us.”

Somehow that doesn’t seem right. “No, I believe someone else is behind this.”

“Why doesn’t this feel like a trap, then?”

“I’m unsure. The Mage must own this entire establishment—how else could we arrive here unobstructed? We must prepare for anything.”

Waver nods.

They reach their destination soon enough: a dimly lit bookstore with creamy-white walls, shelves full to bursting, and with no customers. Naturally, there are no windows. Soft orchestral music is unspooling from the speakers above their heads.

It _seems_ pleasant enough, but Shamhat doesn’t let herself be complacent. She and Waver creep through the entryway and listen carefully for anything amiss.

A shadow looms over the bookshelf labeled “Nonfiction – History”, and its owner strolls around the corner with a slight _creak_ of leather shoes. It’s a handsome man with brown hair, a well-groomed goatee, and a red suit that reminds Shamhat of rubies turned to fabric. He rests his hand on a ruby-tipped cane. The sapphire-blue ribbon draped about his neck is a nice touch, to match his eyes.

When she actually _looks_ at the man’s eyes, her body tenses: they carry icy intelligence with a hint of politeness, but nothing else.

“Good evening, Team Caster,” the Mage says calmly with a smile. He bows his head in acknowledgement.

Waver follows suit, though he’s far more wary about it. “So—are you Assassin’s Master?”

The Mage’s laughter is somehow both controlled and genuine; it’s more than a little eerie. “Oh, no. I am Archer’s Master, Tohsaka Tokiomi.”

Shamhat isn’t surprised; this man has the comportment of a man who would grate on Gilgamesh’s nerves.

“Oh,” Waver says, his voice cracking slightly. “S-Sorry—”

“—No offense taken.” This, too, seems genuine.

As if on cue, Gilgamesh appears in a flurry of gold flecks, leaning against one of the bookshelves in golden armor Shamhat’s never seen before. She can’t help but be taken aback by it; the very design is alien to her, and she can feel the chill of the metal even from this distance.

Gilgamesh narrows his eyes in pleasure at her. “I see you took the bait. Well done, Tokiomi—you have exceeded my meager expectations.”

Tokiomi’s deep bow at the waist is slightly stiff. “You honor me, King of Heroes.”

Waver scowls. “Wait, what’s Gi— _Archer_ talking about?”

Gilgamesh speaks before Tokiomi can, his words a bored drawl: “Your tiff with Lancer’s Master, while mildly entertaining, was not to be—Tokiomi killed him before dawn. The goal was to lure out Saber’s Master, to… _potentially_ …have a battle worthy of me. But when you arrived instead—”

“—That fit my plans as well,” Tokiomi interrupts.

A shard of fear pierces Shamhat’s chest, and she instinctively takes a step back. She makes a rule to avoid those who court death.

“ _Tokiomi_.” Gilgamesh’s controlled tone brings a chill to the air. “You dare interrupt your King?”

“N-No, of course not, Your Highness.” Tokiomi’s bow is even lower this time. “Forgive me, I overstepped my boundaries.”

There’s an ominous pause, the silence magnified by everyone’s frozen posture. Gilgamesh stares at Tokiomi with unblinking, heartless eyes, his lips pursed in distaste.

Shamhat just barely resists the urge to fall to her knees, cold sweat trickling down her neck. She wants to shield Waver from this dread—but then she and Waver are blameless, here.

Waver may as well be invisible—which in this case is a good thing. She wonders if it’s a survival tactic from the Clock Tower.

“Shamhat,” Gilgamesh murmurs, and she starts. “Tokiomi is lacking in knowledge of our ways…despite having Summoned me.” He gestures lazily to the bent figure before them. “If one should be so foolish as to interrupt a King amidst conversation, what must they do?”

She steels herself. “…I’m unsure, Your Highness.”

He chuckles. “Oh, of course…you never acted so brashly! Hmm…surely, there is an equivalent example in our shared history. Ah, there _was_ a time when you accidentally came upon me feasting, a blasphemous act for anyone in Uruk.” He rubs his chin as if in thought. “And what did you do then?”

“I kneeled and begged for forgiveness.”

“Indeed. That will suffice for a punishment.”

Tokiomi’s body twitches as if hit.

“ _Oh_?” Gilgamesh says, arrogance wafting off him like a pungent odor. “Does that not please you, Tokiomi? And here I believed you were a loyal vassal…it _is_ only a few inches, in the end.”

Tokiomi grits his teeth. His body’s shaking with exertion, but he doesn’t speak.

Gilgamesh doesn’t seem to notice: he’s too focused on Tokiomi’s suffering, his eyes glowing with pleasure.

Those combined expressions nudge Shamhat into action.

Shamhat clears her throat delicately. “Your Highness, may I speak?”

“I shall allow it.” Those bright eyes turn their attention to her and pin her to the spot.

Shamhat chooses her words carefully. “I am but a priestess of Inanna, and know more of love than war, but…in instances such as these, you need your vassal to appear strong before the opponent, yes?”

“…That is so.” There’s an unspoken _unfortunately_ hidden in his casual words. “Continue.”

She tension falls from her shoulders slightly. “Then in this case, perhaps Tokiomi’s punishment has already occurred? He is, after all, being informed of his failings before an audience.”

Gilgamesh appears to be seriously thinking it over. Yet again, he feels different from the King she knew—she wonders if this is the tyrant others saw, or some other variation entirely.

“…This once, I shall permit it,” Gilgamesh says, his earrings chiming as he cocks his head. “Interrupt again, Tokiomi, and you will lose far more than your standing. Thank Shamhat for her merciful nature.”

“Thank you, Caster. And thank you, Your Highness.” Tokiomi’s voice has a slight, understandable tremor. “You are generous beyond measure.”

Gilgamesh’s gaze glides over to Shamhat, and he offers her something resembling a smile. “Is that not so, Shamhat?”

This time she bows, her hair tumbling over her shoulders. “Yes, Your Highness,” she says, trying to will her body to stop shaking.

She hears Gilgamesh chuckle. “You see, mongrel? Your Servant is as wise as she is lovely! Be grateful that you Summoned her.”

“I-I am,” Waver replies, sounding flustered.

“Rise, Shamhat,” Gilgamesh continues genially, as if nothing happened. “You have nothing to fear.”

She slowly rises from her bowed position, brushing her hair out of her eyes. Waver seems unbothered by what just occurred—a pleasant surprise considering his previous actions.

“Tokiomi, rise, and let your heart quiver with joy—I permit you to speak.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Tokiomi says, his movements a little stiff as he stands. Impressively, he too appears as though what just happened was a mere setback. He resumes speaking his peace:  

“I admit, I have had difficulty in figuring out how to deal with you two.” He inclines his head toward Shamhat. “ _You_ , Caster, are not a Servant built for battle, yet you were Archer’s subject in the past. And your Master is inexperienced yet chosen by the Grail. As a result, the best option was…”

Shamhat lets her eyes glaze over, aware that Waver’s listening intently to all this. No doubt it’s something only another Mage could appreciate.

“…And here we are,” Tokiomi finally concludes. “You two look like you could use some refreshments—please, come sit at the café. Don’t worry, I own this establishment, thus we don’t need to fear interlopers.”

Waver’s gaze flicks to the cane, then back at Tokiomi. “…So you aren’t going to fight me?”

Tokiomi raises an eyebrow, as if that hadn’t occurred to him before. “Certainly not! You are only a novice, after all—it would be inelegant to the extreme to duel you.”

Waver seethes, his hands trembling like he’s going to strangle Tokiomi with his ribbon.

“Then what _do_ you want?” he says instead, and Shamhat inwardly applauds his restraint.

“I wish to speak with you over tea, Mage to Mage. I have an offer to give you.”

Waver’s naturally suspicious. “…What _kind_ of offer?”

Tokiomi’s eyes glint as his lips curl into a smile. “An offer of apprenticeship—in exchange for your role as Master.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and happy early New Year!


	4. Opportunities Found and Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Waver and Tokiomi commence their bargaining, Gilgamesh and Shamhat have a conversation of their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split this chapter into two parts, since otherwise it was getting unwieldy. So the next chapter _should_ be the last, provided that one doesn't become a monster too! 
> 
> (Speaking of monsters, sheesh Gil, tone down your capriciousness already. This is what happens when you stew in grief for a thousand years!)

Shamhat watches Waver’s eyes widen in shock, and she knows she looks the same way. The opportunity to be apprenticed to an obviously gifted Mage—this is nothing short of a miracle. Better yet, it seems genuine. A tactic in war, yes, but still…Shamhat wouldn’t begrudge Waver if he agreed to the terms.

But Waver’s luck with regards to Mage culture has been ill at best. “I’d like to talk about this further, Tohsaka,” he says, looking at Shamhat concernedly. “I don’t want to waste Caster’s time.”

“Of course,” Tokiomi says, and extends a hand presumably toward the café. “Right this way.”

As Tokiomi and Waver walk away, Shamhat notes that Gilgamesh isn’t following them.

“Are the refreshments delicious?” she asks, though she doubts he bothered to sample them himself.

Gilgamesh shrugs. “Tokiomi claims them to be so. Let us leave the Mages to their devices—I wish to enjoy your company.”

“…Will we be far from them?”

“Don’t fret, we will be close by. This bookstore may be paltry compared to Uruk’s stores of knowledge, but it is large enough that we may have privacy.”

“Thank you,” Shamhat says, and she follows Gilgamesh through the labyrinthine bookshelves.

Unexpectedly, his armor soon vanishes in a burst of gold, replaced with the clothes he wore when they first reunited in this era. _Though the neckline of his shirt seems lower than before…_

As they walk, their conversation begins with mild subjects (though mercifully not the weather), before turning to something more concrete in the Travel section. They stand opposite each other, between the Europe and Asia shelves, close enough to touch.

“Your rescue of Rider is worthy of praise,” Gilgamesh says suddenly, using the Europe shelf as an armrest. “It has given me no shortage of entertainment—he has a vigorous fondness for debate and drink!”

“You honor me,” Shamhat replies with a smile and inclines her head respectfully. “But it was merely a just action, nothing more.” Her smile fades. “To leave a Hero in that madman’s care…that would be too cruel.”

“It benefits you on the battlefield as well,” Gilgamesh says with a sly grin. “Rider is eager to ally with you, should you require it.”

Shamhat chuckles. “It was pleasant to see desire directed at me again.”

Gilgamesh hums in amusement, cocking his head to one side; his earrings sway and chime with his movements. “Your Master is still easily flustered, I take it?”

“Of course,” she says, carefully ignoring the exposed column of his neck. “Sometimes that trait never changes.”

He grins and rests his other hand on the narrow curve of his hip. “And yet, you require mana…quite a vexing predicament, is it not?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Are you making an offer?”

“Of course! You are too entertaining to vanish due to a simple lack of mana.” Gilgamesh pauses for effect. “Well? Are you not overjoyed beyond measure?”

“I thought that was obvious. But…is Mana Transfer between Servants even possible?”

“The rules of the Grail War are not as secure as some believe—Lancer received orders from one Mage and mana from another. It’s quite possible.”

“…I see.” She glances off to the side thoughtfully. “Could you also be ensuring that Tokiomi’s bargain is secure? If I vanish before the offer is taken or refused, Waver’s status is forfeit regardless.”

“I have many reasons for my offer—do you consider them cruel? If so, that was not my intention.” Gilgamesh opens a large portal, his expression perfectly neutral even as he extends a hand to her.

“The boy will be able to call you,” he says in answer to her unspoken question.

Her fears assuaged, Shamhat follows him inside.

\---

 _This must be the inside of his Treasury._ She can still hear Waver and Tokiomi talking from inside here—from what she can gather, they’re discussing Waver’s ill-fated thesis.

She looks about her curiously, noting how the huge caramel-brown room they’re in looks like it could be part of Gilgamesh’s palace; the soft carpet of woven reeds, mountains of cushions and carvings of entwined couples on the walls prove it. Strings of gems dangle here and there from the ceiling. Faintly, she can smell the nostalgic tang of frankincense.

“Fascinating,” she says.

A new, smaller portal appears beside Gilgamesh’s hand, and the familiar wine pitcher and cups appear. “Here. One can also acquire mana through sating other hungers.”

Shamhat is aware that this delicious smelling wine will cause more harm than good, if the negotiations between their Masters go sour. And yet…

Gilgamesh smiles and pours himself a cup, and the melodious sound and sweet, heady scent that follow tickle at her nostalgia. Plumes of steam rise from the wine, in stark contrast to the cold rain besieging Fuyuki outside.

“As endearing as your expression is,” he says gently, swirling the wine with a steady hand, “to see _you_ of all my subjects senselessly deprive yourself of joy is painful to behold. Wine _is_ best shared with company, after all.”

Instead of drinking the cup himself, he holds it out to her.

She can feel her resolve crumbling. “And what if I need to protect Waver?”

“I will not stop you. However, that boy you currently serve…would he wish you to suffer?”

“No,” she says, and after a long pause reaches for the cup.

Gilgamesh smiles as she takes the wine from him; their fingers brush, leaving tingling sparks beneath her skin. She watches his deep purple reflection pour another cup, the image shivering as she lifts it to her lips.

Shamhat knew it would be deliciously sweet, but there’s something _different_ about this wine: it’s a luxurious, mellow-yet-potent flavor, with varying textures that linger on the tongue like the last notes of a song. In essence, it’s the sort of wine that makes one poetic.

“…This came from the finest brewery in Uruk,” she says, after savoring the first sip. The realization makes her heart ache, for reasons best not lingered on. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

He nods leisurely, not bothering to interrupt her reverie.

They drink in silence, enjoying each other’s company in this rarest of moments. As neither Waver nor Tokiomi’s voice has rose any louder than a conversational hum, things seem to be going well on their end too. Shamhat relishes the wine, letting her mind wander down the streets of Uruk, or temple halls at leisure.

Gilgamesh speaks up. “What wish would you bid the Grail grant?”

Her wine ripples and threatens to spill, but Shamhat holds her cup steady.

“Why do you ask, Your Highness?”

“The Grail would not choose you otherwise. Surely, you must have _something_ you desire!”

She doesn’t understand the chill crawling over her face and neck—she suspects it must be embarrassment. She drinks a little deeper this time, the better to chase away this discomfort.

“…I had many wishes in life: most often, I wished I had more time to spend with you and Enkidu. I wished I could reverse time, and be at your sides when the Bull of Heaven attacked—but I know now that I would have only been another body in the streets.” Her eyes burn, and she wipes away the tears before they can fall. “I still regret my choice, but too much could go wrong attempting to avert it.”

Gilgamesh looks her over with an unreadable expression. “Then what is your current wish?”

The embarrassment crawls back again; Shamhat rubs her neck with irritated fingers. “Well…I never had the chance to mourn with you. And when you returned, your grief had faded away like morning dew. I—I could not—”

Gilgamesh’s laughter is barbed and cruel. The worst part about it, as head tips back and his body shakes with mirth, is that it seems genuine.

Her blood boils. She nearly drops her cup.

“This is _amusing_ to you?” she snaps, heedless of her tone. “I’m serious!”

This only makes him laugh harder. He manages to speak through his merriment: “You…your arrogance is astounding. To believe _you_ could have soothed my heart…that you were _equal_ to him…!”

“ _No_.” She’s trembling now, her hands clenched into fists. “I never believed that. But”—her words snap like a whip—“do you _truly_ believe you were the only one who mourned?”

Gilgamesh’s laughter subsides, leaving only dark amusement in his voice. “Then tell me, why would you rebuff my companion so often? Surely, Inanna would prefer Her priestess enjoy the bounties of Her city rather than toil ceaselessly.”

“Then you did not know Inanna well.” Shamhat tries to keep her voice steady, to obscure this half-truth. “You were the… _man_ …who rebuffed Her and faced the consequences!”

Gilgamesh shrugs one shoulder, but it’s clear he finds her answer unsatisfactory. “That I did. But why did my companion have to suffer? There is no answer for that.”

“I cherished the time we spent together,” she says, this truth seeming to burn her throat.

Gilgamesh’s lips curl in a vindictive smile. “Then tell me, Shamhat, where were you when he lay dying?”

“I was at the Temple of Inanna, I could not leave—”

“—Liar.” The amusement is gone now. “You could not bear your own sadness, that your luscious, joyous life had been tarnished. And thus, you never came.”

The painful sinking of her heart is nearly overwhelming. “I—I did come.”

“Oh?” Gilgamesh manages a tone of mild surprise. “When?”

She fights past the burning lump in her throat. “…When he cursed me.”

She tries to ignore the sickening pang of emotion she feels whenever she thinks of that day: the shocking rage in Enkidu’s voice as he ravaged everything she held dear, how alone and in pain he was. All she could do was stand in silence behind the closed door, before rushing out of the palace with stinging, blurred eyes. _If I had only stayed a moment longer…_

She picks up her wine cup again—perhaps that will remove the pain in her throat. _Afterward, when I heard of the blessing, I could scarcely believe it until it began coming true. And even then…_

Gilgamesh doesn’t seem to comprehend at first. Then he smirks. “Ah, so _that_ was it. You heard the curse and not the blessing, and you bolted like a child—”

“— _Enough!_ ”

She sees red and tosses the wine at him, only just managing to hold onto the cup.

Mercifully, she misses his face. Wine drenches his shirt, soaking the skin beneath, and purple rivulets glide down and _plip_ to the carpet. He steps back, flinching at the heat. His eyes are wide, and his lips are parted in shock.

There is a terrible silence.

It slowly dawns on her just how foolish she’s acted (despite it also being worth it). With little else to do, she kneels on trembling knees and bows her head.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” she says, hating the squeak in her voice. “That—that was the height of impertinence, foolish and base and…”

She hears a portal opening, and her words run dry. She doesn’t dare look up to see what comes out of it. She squeezes her eyes shut and waits for the inevitable.

“Now _this_ is a momentous occasion,” Gilgamesh says with unconvincing geniality. “You struck at your King with your own hands, and not through my companion’s! And you bared your childish side in the bargain—perhaps your Master’s flaws have infected you?”

She begins to apologize again, fearing that Waver’s life is now at stake. But she barely finishes her sentence before she feels Gilgamesh’s fingers curl against and lift her chin. He doesn’t _appear_ angered, but that could easily be a front.

“Rise,” he orders softly. “I have a suitable punishment for you.”

Shamhat lurches to her feet, the scent of spilled wine greeting her. Their cups and the pitcher are gone—vanished into the portal while she was distracted. She can see the wet muscles beneath Gilgamesh’s shirt, and feel the warmth of his skin. Her rising trepidation makes any desire she might feel wither away.

Gilgamesh bares his teeth in a sly grin and lifts his drenched shirt up and over his head, letting it pool in his hands. “We shall exchange garments.”

Somehow, she can rationalize this. This punishment is far better than she’d expected from Gilgamesh’s current state—having boiling-hot wine dumped on her until she perished seemed the most likely outcome. In the end, it isn’t as if she’s never worn wet garments before. _Nor is it the first time I’ve seen someone else in my robes…_

“Were you expecting something cruel?” Gilgamesh asks, his voice rich with condescension. “Since you acted so childishly, I’ve deigned to indulge that side of you.”

“I acted that way because you angered me,” she says; for some reason she needs to tell him this.

“I’m well aware of that,” he replies, almost sounding aware he deserved it.

She sighs and removes her still-drying robes in a quick, fluid motion, the warmth of the room evading any chill on her naked skin. They exchange garments. She can’t help but notice the shirt is warm from Gilgamesh’s body heat more than the wine. The wet fabric is hard to pull on, but somehow she manages it. The shirt’s hem reaches her thighs, clinging but thankfully not itchy. She tries to look on the bright side: _Now I shall smell of grapes; a fitting perfume for me!_

Once she’s finished, she turns to look at Gilgamesh—and finds herself taken aback.

The hem ends abruptly above his knees, the fabric is still drying from the rain, and his shoulders are a little _too_ broad. But all her foolish mind can think of is how he almost appears _pedestrian_ in her robes. Even the snakeskin trousers and gleaming jewelry at his throat and wrists look like offerings to a god, rather than the leisure-attire of Uruk’s King. But his blood-red eyes remind her of who he really is.

“Oh…” is all she can say, the sound barely a whisper.

He runs fingers over his chest and tugs the fabric taut, blatantly beguiling. “Has the sight of me in your colors struck your heart?”

She laughs at that. “Is that a common dilemma for you, Your Highness?”

Gilgamesh chuckles and turns leisurely in a circle; the borrowed robes flutter and float around his body like a fine mist. “…I’m growing to understand why he wore that garment so often.”

Shamhat’s heart sinks at his words.

“He said the scent of you was heavenly, you know.” Gilgamesh comes to a stop, and the robes drape against his skin. “He was very disappointed when it began to fade from his garb. He and I went on a quest throughout the marketplace in those early days, hunting for your perfume. Despite my suggesting it, he never asked you directly; he was convinced it was a sacred treasure! On the day the Bull of Heaven struck, he had quite a convoluted plan to lure you into revealing the secret.”

Realization prickles in her mind. “…He told me you were exploring the marketplace.”

Gilgamesh chuckles. “And to think, you refused him. Truly, it was a miracle he even extended an invitation!”

Shamhat clenches her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She knows what this punishment is, now. Part of her wants to ask, no, _demand_ that Gilgamesh give her robes back, but that will only end terribly.

“ _Well_ ,” she says with a raw voice, “we shall never know, will we?”

Gilgamesh turns back with a sigh. “…Yes, perhaps that _was_ overly cruel. Soiled linen does not equal reinforced regrets, as punishments go.”

She decides to change the subject, to spite him and to remind them both why they’re here. “So…do you think a bargain will be struck?”

“Possibly. Tokiomi is a powerful Mage—he summoned _me_ , after all. And the boy has little to return to, it seems. It would be in his best interest to agree to the terms…”

Shamhat slowly realizes something; her lip curls in disgust. “…I see. So Lancer and his Master were murdered to provide leverage.”

“Such is the way of war,” Gilgamesh says in a tone of utter boredom. “You should focus on you and your Master’s wellbeing, not your enemies.”

“And yet that was cruel of you, Your Highness.”

He frowns, as if noticing a bruise on a petal. “I have acted as such before, many times. Did you forget, or simply not notice?”

“…Time blurs for everyone. Your punishment of Tokiomi just now definitely sparked a memory…”

“Hm. I see. Did throwing wine at my person sate your anger?”

She lets out a surprised hiccup of a laugh—she should’ve expected a blunt question like that. “I—I would have done far more if it hadn’t!”

He chuckles; the sound is genuine. “Truly, that man learned much from you…”

Like performing a dance, she changes the subject again, out of reach of anything unpleasant. They discuss the strangeness of this Grail War, and why neither Master has used their Command Seals yet, despite clearly wanting to. Gilgamesh concludes that it is due to respect, but privately Shamhat believes otherwise.

“Let us see how your Master is faring,” Gilgamesh says suddenly, removing Shamhat’s robes with unexpected care. “You have concluded your punishment.”

Shamhat eagerly peels off Gilgamesh’s shirt. “Thank you, Your Highness!”

Gilgamesh shrugs as though it’s nothing. Perhaps it is, to someone like him. He retrieves an identical, clean shirt from his Treasury, further proving Shamhat’s suspicions correct.

Much to her amusement, Gilgamesh then fusses over her like a lioness to her cub: he makes sure her skin hasn’t been burnt by the heated wine, and inspects her robes to be sure that they’re still pristine.

When she redresses, the linen cool and comforting on her skin, she asks “Is this a form of apology, Your Highness?”

“Practicality is my main concern: the boy would _never_ ally with anyone who mistreated his Caster. He is remarkably loyal, for a Master!”

Her heart warms with pride.

\---

They stride through the portal and arrive at the café, a surprisingly cozy place despite the glass and plastic that surrounds them, from the tables to the cases filled with glistening sweets. Shamhat suspects that the sweets are merely representations—it wouldn’t make sense to leave food out after hours. Thankfully, she’s too concerned for Waver to be hungry.

She turns and looks at Waver and Tokiomi, seated opposite each other at a round glass table. Tokiomi has tea, while Waver’s drinking his yearned-for hot chocolate at last. Steam wreaths their faces, making them look mysterious despite the peaceful setting.

“My Magic Circuits are pathetic, though,” Waver says, still looking wary. “You must’ve seen my ‘fight’ with Rider’s Master—I didn’t know what I was doing. Isn’t that the _opposite_ of ‘elegance’?”

“Yes,” Tokiomi replies, stirring his tea leisurely. “But what caught my attention is that you _survived_. That man was a capable murderer, and yet here you are, unscathed. And you managed to track down Lancer’s Master, and were willing to face him in battle despite your gulf in talent. As someone who worked diligently to get where I am, I consider that worth commending.”

Waver grins. “So _that’s_ why you find my thesis so interesting. Got it.”

“Call it a bias, if you like,” Tokiomi says, utterly unfazed.

“…So what’ll happen to me if you die?” Waver asks, blunt as a punting-pole to the face.

“You will be in my will,” Tokiomi replies smoothly, pushing a copy over the table to Waver. “Obviously, my daughter Rin will be my heir, but as my apprentice you will have many benefits as well: connections and alliances to Mages who will appreciate your talents—and yes, you _do_ have some, Waver Velvet.”

Waver looks stunned before he hastily picks up his cup to hide his expression. “…Thanks,” he mumbles, after taking a deep sip.

Tokiomi merely smiles and leans back in his chair, legs crossed at the ankles.

Unexpectedly, Waver turns his attention to Shamhat. “Hey, Caster…you have a wish, right?”

Shamhat’s fingers twine in the linen of her dress; she bites her lip. Gilgamesh’s amusement over her wish still stings, and probably will long after this moment. She can feel his gaze on her, affectionate yet detached.

_I required so little—just a simple admission of loss, to hear Enkidu’s name from his lips. And yet even that has been denied…. Then, should I simply give in, and wait for another wish?_

“I _did_ have a wish,” Shamhat says softly, trying to smile as she always does.

Waver doesn’t fully buy it. “You’re _sure_ , Caster?”

She rubs the back of her neck; sweat collects on her palm. “Well…if possible, I desire one more day in this world. There will be snow tomorrow, and I never experienced it in Uruk!”

Tokiomi looks pleased. “That seems fair. Mr. Velvet, what about you?”

Waver’s expression turns calm and clear. He nods. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Shamhat breathes a sigh of relief and looks at Gilgamesh, who’s standing impartially by the glass cases. “Another success. Isn’t that so, Your Highness?”

Gilgamesh grants her a small smile. “So it appears. I shall visit you tomorrow morning, if you wish.” The offer of Mana Transfer is obvious.

She gives a short bow. Warmth trickles into her heart at her desire being granted, if not her wish. While the bitter sadness still lingers, she forces herself to think positively. _My Master and I have survived longer than anyone would expect—what could be better than that?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shamhat accepts Gilgamesh's offer, and her Holy Grail War draws to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps as to be expected with this fic, this chapter wound up _growing_ in word count during edits instead of shrinking. Thank you for waiting! 
> 
> I feel a little amused/embarrassed that it took this long to actually get Shamhat's vocation (i.e. love-priestess) into a story all about her. Ah, well, better late than never!

As Gilgamesh promised, he arrives in the morning, just as dawn begins to flush orange and pink on the horizon. In a surprisingly considerate gesture, he once again makes use of his Treasury to lead her into a room full to bursting with bedding.

Shamhat laughs with delight at the nest before her, filled with patterned blankets and cushions and layered with mattresses ancient and modern. Dawn’s rays filter in through the ornate stone sun-roof above; this is a place meant to be welcoming.

Gilgamesh sprawls out invitingly on one of the modern mattresses in the center; his naked body bounces a little as he does so. “After that arduous wait,” he purrs, “You deserve an exotic locale…”

Shamhat opts to take the scenic route to him: she bounces from mattress to mattress, the hidden springs bending and lifting under her feet as she goes. The giddy novelty of it delights her. _Perhaps I need more sleep?_

Gilgamesh looks on her joy with amusement. When she reaches him, his hands take their time curling about her waist and easing her down atop him. _Ah…I have missed this warmth!_

Her hair glides over his face like a curtain, and her hands tingle as she explores this body she knows as well as her own.

Gilgamesh sputters and forces her hair over her back, nearly ruining the mood. As if aware of this, he kisses her with smooth, gentle lips. She lets it deepen, the world around them melting away until she needs to take a breath.

“At least you did not sneeze,” Shamhat mutters before resuming her joyful work.

“Your hair _is_ quite beautiful,” Gilgamesh says, before pressing searing kisses up her jawline. “But…”

Shamhat sighs into it, her robes brushing against Gilgamesh’s thighs. “But…?”

“…I would prefer to see your face.” His whisper gusts against her ear before rests his head back, to let her take the lead.

While others might find Gilgamesh’s leonine laziness unappealing, wanting a more proactive lover, Shamhat’s belly pools with taut heat as his body arches up like an offering for her.

After, as the world’s haziness retreats and her skin cools, she pillows her cheek on Gilgamesh’s chest and watches him slowly wipe his face and neck with his hand.

His laughter vibrates against her cheek. “My hair is mussed beyond belief, due to your greedy hands. Ah, well, it was pleasant.”

“I should hope so,” she says, pretending to pout. “You should feel cleansed, refreshed, in tune with your body!”

Gilgamesh looks at her with wry amusement. “After each embrace? That sounds _unspeakably_ exhausting.” He peers down at his chest, as if surveying the land. “You do seem refreshed, however, which is good; it would be difficult to enjoy your final day with your Master otherwise.”

Shamhat nods and shifts a little to get comfortable. Her feet brush against Gilgamesh’s, and he allows it. _It almost feels as though we have traveled back into the past—but of course, that is impossible. I must acknowledge that in order to enjoy today._

They take a bath then nap for a long while, gaining some well-earned rest in the process. Inevitably Shamhat hears Waver waking up in the distance. He seems well rested too.

It feels as though she and Gilgamesh have only spent a scant second together, but considering how things _could_ have occurred, she will accept it.

Shamhat sits up and yawns, stretching her arms above her head until they ache pleasantly. “I must be off, Your Highness.” She bows her head, her hair tumbling over her shoulder onto his belly. “Thank you for the Mana Transfer!”

“I assure you, it was hardly a struggle,” Gilgamesh drawls, his belly softly rising and falling as he breathes. “Your lustful expression is a lovely sight, as always!”

She laughs. “And the same goes for you.”

She stands and strolls toward the rippling exit Gilgamesh provides with a snap of his fingers. A current of discontent veins its way through her chest, selfish and useless. She wallows in it until it passes—there’s no sense in _forcing_ herself to be at ease.  

She looks back at Gilgamesh with a sad smile. “Perhaps we shall meet again in the Throne of Heroes!”

“Perhaps,” Gilgamesh murmurs, a slight smile on his lips.

With that, she exits the portal, her body thrumming with enough mana to last the day.

\---

Breakfast is a bittersweet affair; the Mackenzie’s are sad to see “Shula” go, and Shamhat can’t help hugging them repeatedly in an attempt to elongate their time together. Mr. Mackenzie quietly takes his leave, as if to avoid having to see them depart.

Mrs. Mackenzie gives Shamhat and Waver two of her hand-knit scarves, both striped like peppermint and made of pleasantly soft wool.

“Are you sure you don’t need a coat, Shula dear?” Mrs. MacKenzie asks, as Waver shrugs into his star-emblazened jersey.

“Yes, this scarf is quite warm!” Shamhat lifts the ends of her scarf and flops them about lightly, grinning as the tassels bounce up and down. “You said winters are mild here, yes? Then I have nothing to fear.”

Waver’s ready to go, one hand already on the doorknob. “I’ll be late getting back—I may stay at Shula’s friend’s house—so don’t wait up for me, okay?” He speaks as though the words feel strange in his mouth.

Mrs. MacKenzie shakes her head and sighs. “You youngsters always stay out until dawn, I don’t know how you do it!”

Waver’s genuine smile ghosts across his lips before resuming his neutral frown. “I won’t be out _that_ late, don’t worry.”

He opens the door, Shamhat bids one last goodbye, and they step into a brisk chill with a sky like dusty silver.

Once they’re out of hearing range of any nosy neighbors, Shamhat asks Waver “I take it you must stay in Fuyuki, now that Tohsaka has made you his apprentice?”

“Yeah,” Waver says, walking leisurely for a change. “I don’t have much waiting for me back in London—I’ll still need to visit, though.”

She smiles softly. “I suspect you will miss London soon.”

“Maybe. _Not_ the Clock Tower.”

“I understand that completely!”

Waver lets out a raspy chuckle and glances up at the sky. “The snow here won’t be as wet and heavy as Britain’s. It’ll probably be a flurry.”

“A flurry…it sounds charming,” Shamhat says, looking about at the quiet streets. She closes her eyes and thinks of what knowledge the Grail has given her, searching for winter activities specifically. Snowball fights and making snowmen are impossible with a mere flurry, but surely there are other things they could do.

Fortunately, Waver has an idea. “There’s going to be a private concert today, at one of the cafés. Want to go?”

“What sort of music is it?”

“Jazz,” Waver says, side-stepping a pair of schoolgirls literally running late. “I made sure you could dance, if you wanted.”

 _What a pleasant surprise!_ “Do you wish to learn to dance, Waver? I would gladly teach you!”

He makes an unidentifiable noise, then turns to look at her with a flummoxed scowl. “Well—I’ll _think_ about it.”

Shamhat beams with pride at his development.

\---

The Jazz venue is an atmospheric place, with dim lighting, cozy tables and the quiet hum of conversation. Shamhat and Waver are embraced by the warm indoors as the door swings shut behind them, as if guarding their backs from the chill outside. The rust-colored walls are decorated with hand-painted musicians in silhouette, along with framed playbills of performances past.

The varnished wood floor dips, revealing a linoleum dance floor flanked by some tables and chairs, and a stage where the musicians can perform. (The dip in the floor is to accommodate wheelchairs, according to the blue, illuminated sign.)

Waver knowingly heads to the dance floor, instead of toward the booths further away. Shamhat strolls behind him, mindful of the sudden drop. The linoleum bows under Shamhat’s feet, as if she stepped on a bubble of cooling tar.

The performers are a small ensemble band, with a trumpet, drums and piano—this is an amateur production, which bothers Shamhat not at all. What _does_ bother her is the sense of bitter malaise that lingers around the band as the step onto the stage to polite applause. Nervousness is understandable, but that’s not the case here: they seem about as enthusiastic as soldiers trudging through a bog. _That simply won’t do!_

So once the band finishes tuning their instruments and begins playing, Shamhat begins to dance. It’s not difficult to do—the melody is quite bouncy—and she lets her body move to the beat as it wills. When she looks behind her to see how Waver’s doing, she sees him relaxing in a nearby chair and clapping along to the beat; he may not be dancing, but he’s clearly enjoying himself.

Others have already flocked to the dance floor, and Shamhat quickly learns their dance steps. Wild yet controlled, loose-limbed yet practiced, these dancers are fascinating in their contradictions.

Even with her restored mana, Shamhat’s finding it difficult to keep up; the air around them grows muggy with sweat and the ever-ratcheting intensity. Bumping into someone could prove a true health hazard. _Perhaps Waver had the right idea: these people are closer to whirlwinds than dancers!_

Eventually, Shamhat admits defeat and drags herself over to a chair beside Waver’s. She slumps into the chair with a grateful sigh, wiping sweat out of her eyes with a heavy arm.

“Just looking at you was tiring!” Waver’s forced to yell over the gleefully blaring trumpet and pounding drums, but he grins good-naturedly. “You looked good!”

“Thank you,” Shamhat bellows back, feeling ridiculous in a pleasant way.

As the concert goes on, the band finally seems to discover its enthusiasm: they begin swaying and bobbing along to their own music, eyes closed in bliss. As always, art and audience work in tandem, and the café is a vibrant blur of sound and the scent of sweat.

Shamhat smiles at the thrum beneath her feet, and knows Waver can feel it too. Together, they watch and listen, their hearts keeping time with the music that cocoons them in its world.

\---

Despite the melodies varying from feverishly frantic to slow and smooth, Shamhat eventually gets the urge to go somewhere else. She and Waver pay at the door and walk out into the snowy city again, the cool air now a relief.

From this point on, Waver has no set destination, which is fine with Shamhat. She takes the lead, now, bringing Waver to the Shopping District, aiming for the antique stores she explored previously.

As she’d hoped, Waver takes to them like a bird to flight. Since Waver can’t speak Japanese, Shamhat becomes an intermediary. It’s simple enough: “Why does this fan have kanji on it?” (Shamhat translates the poem for him) to “Do you have anything on sale?”

The salespeople are often older folk, and seem pleased that “youngsters” are taking such interest in the past. Shamhat is surprised that Waver doesn’t buy anything, despite how clearly curious he is about the antiques.

When they leave the last antique store, Shamhat begins to notice the frayed ends of this beautiful tapestry called Fuyuki. She saw homeless people in Uruk, and there were many proverbs concerning them. But the homeless were not so many in number, and did not have to deal with weather like this. Though they are carefully hidden, she can see dingy alleyways where their shivering lumps are cloistered, lonely and forgotten. Some of them even have pets, who try desperately to shield their humans from the cold with their own thin bodies.

When she asks Waver about them, he shakes his head and walks faster. They make it to the quiet, forest-hedged roads that mark the city’s retreat. The trees’ branches are powdered like sourdough bread, their once-green leaves now weighted with white. There are no civilians walking beside them, now—the sky is growing dark, and the street-lamps are turning on, one by one.

“I’m certain you could spare a few coins for those people—”

“—Caster, I don’t even know the language, how’s my money going to help?” Bitterness seeps through his controlled voice.

Shamhat doesn’t understand; her mind flounders against Waver’s words. “But…there must be _some_ way…!”

He sighs and frowns down at the snow. “Sorry, Caster.”

Shamhat’s heart sinks, but she manages a hopeful smile. “Perhaps you can talk to Tohsaka, and see if he can lend them assistance!”

Waver nods hesitantly. “I can try.”

As their feet _crunch_ against the slowly freezing powder, Shamhat suddenly realizes just _how_ quiet this area is. Perhaps it’s the snowflakes, still drifting down in silence, while only one or two cars churn by. Perhaps it’s the ever-darkening sky, the streetlamps beside them only just illuminating the road, stretching out before her eyes like spools of ribbon.

_Or perhaps…it’s because we remain on the battlefield._

Waver’s worried voice cuts through her ominous thoughts: “I should’ve thought up a better plan, it feels like we’re just wandering around!”

Shamhat smiles and shakes her head. “Sometimes, simply wandering through a fascinating city is entertaining in itself.”

A stray, chill breeze carries with it a whiff of tobacco; a strange, bitter smell that contrasts horribly with the clean wet scent of snow.

A car that has seen better days chugs along beside the sidewalk, belching smoke as it goes. When it vanishes down the corner, Shamhat sighs in relief. _I shall amend my statement: exhaust is equally unpleasant to the nose._

Waver stops suddenly and reaches into his trousers pocket with deceptive casualness. “…Hey, Caster. Can you sense something?”

She doesn’t need to focus long to understand. “Yes. Saber is approaching.”

Waver makes a hasty calculation. “It’s not night yet, so we should be okay. I wonder if my apprenticeship’s common knowledge by now?”

A nervous chuckle escapes Shamhat’s lips. “I wouldn’t boast just yet—Saber may be here to ensure its termination!”

Thankfully, as Saber walks toward them, her feet crunching in the snow, she isn’t wearing her armor. Instead, she’s wearing a fashionable black suit that stands in stark contrast to the white snow and butter-yellow streetlamps around her.

“Caster—I’ve got a bad feeling. Get one of your weapons ready!”

Shamhat’s hand pulses with Magic, preparing to summon the priest’s blade. And yet…when she looks at the set of Saber’s shoulders, the blatantly unguarded swing of her arms, she pauses.

“No, Waver—she does not wish to fight.”

Waver glances at her with a quirked eyebrow. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. Look closely: her very stance is telling us to stay our hand. If she had designs on us, her steps would be slower due to her concealed armor and sword.”

Waver looks back at Saber, squinting to get a better look. Then he nods. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

“Let us hope so,” Shamhat says, letting the Magic retreat.

As Saber draws close enough to speak, Shamhat finds herself mesmerized by the wary yet gentle look in Saber’s eyes; that lush blue-green like polished jade is a sight to behold.

“Good day,” Saber says, her voice carrying even through the _roar_ of a passing car.

Shamhat bows her head.

In a pleasantly unexpected move, Waver mimics her. “…Er, hi? I-I mean, good day!”

Saber smiles slightly, as if surprised by their politeness. “Thank you, but please stand.” Then she resumes her neutral expression. “I have come to warn you two: an… _associate_ of my Master is considering whether you are a threat to our victory.”

Her tone makes Shamhat’s skin prickle in foreboding. “Is this the person responsible for the Hyatt’s destruction?”

“…Yes. I have argued in your defense, but this man leaves little to chance. However, my Master has told me I could speak with you, if that would achieve the same result; you see, your presence is a ‘wild card’ that requires elimination.”

Shamhat has a strong impression that Saber isn’t _precisely_ telling the truth regarding who acquiesced to Saber’s suggestion. But as long as she and Waver know about potential problems it doesn’t matter. _I suspect that if we’d made to attack her, she would have been forced to slay us._

“I get it,” Waver says quietly. “Since Rider’s fading from the War, if we’re gone, Archer’s the only problem left.”

Saber looks relieved that Waver understands. “I would advise you head to the Church. You will be safe—” Her eyes widen, and her lips curl in a bitter scowl.

With a sickening lurch, Shamhat finds her gaze following Saber’s, despite knowing what she will find. A red dot is flickering up and down Waver’s back and neck, as if taunting them.

Instinctively Waver dives to the side; Shamhat hears the _hiss_ of air and the _crack_ of a bullet lodged in the pavement.

“Oh God…!” Waver claps a hand over his mouth, still crouched.

Shamhat scoops Waver up, not caring if she gets shot in the process.

Another bullet flies, this time grazing Shamhat’s head; another hits her ear. She gasps, the smell of burning flesh assaulting her nose. Hot blood trickles down the back of her neck.

“Caster…?!” Waver’s eyes widen, and he reaches for her wounds with a trembling hand. His voice sounds oddly muffled and distant.

Shamhat’s prepared for the next bullet. She weaves through the barrage on adrenaline-fueled feet, but not fast enough to find an opening to teleport to safety.

 _Saber’s “associate” is going to receive a stern chiding from her Master, that much is certain!_ Shamhat bites back a hysterical giggle.

Saber lunges before Shamhat, her armor glowing to life around her. She doesn’t have to say anything: rage swells from her posture like a lion’s coiled legs before a pounce.

Shamhat doesn’t have time to be grateful. Instead she teleports away and leaves the noise of gunfire and Saber’s rage behind.

\---

They don’t have much time left, only a few hours. Shamhat can feel her feet beginning to grow numb, and not from the cold. Her wounds have already healed, but her heart is still pounding a harsh rhythm in her chest.

Shamhat deposits Waver, pleased to see neither her blood nor his stains his clothes. He seems calmer, now that they have escaped.

“Good thing I allied with Tohsaka, huh?” His smile is half-hearted, but at least it’s an attempt.

“Stay on your guard, until this War is finished.” Shamhat brushes snow off Waver’s hair. It’s a futile action but one worth taking. The icy wetness against her fingers is duller than it should be.

Waver’s brows pinch. “’Course I will, I’m not _stupid._ ”

She smiles. “As expected from my Master!”

The snow-flurry comes and goes. The sinking sun occasionally peers out from the clouds in small, piercing shards of red and violet, only to be hidden away by the silvery blanket again.

They walk toward the looming Church with uneasy steps—the road here is slick with ice. _Falling and breaking one’s neck would be highly anticlimactic—especially after what just occurred!_ However, the building is illuminated against dusk’s encroaching net, which makes the gleaming ice easier to see.

A question comes to Shamhat, as Waver looks toward the Church with a thoughtful expression.

“Waver…what about the Clock Tower students in similar situations to you? They seem trapped, and you are not the type to leave someone in harm’s way.”

Waver looks back at her. His eyes glint with determination, and he rests a hand on his hip confidently. “That’s part of my plan. Tohsaka likes my thesis, he just says it needs to be refined. Once I polish it, and I’ve got those Mage connections he promised— _then_ I’ll go back to the Clock Tower and shake things up a bit, whatever it takes!”

Shamhat’s heart feels heavy in her chest. “If I may act as your teacher for a moment…”

Waver blinks in surprise. Snowflakes swirl down from the onyx-black sky, the wetness drifting onto their skin and hair. His cheeks flush from the cold, and his breath puffs into existence as if to compete with the snow.

“…What do you mean, Caster? You’ve been my teacher this whole time: all that talk about ‘finding someone stronger to help fight’, and ‘focusing on my joy’…” He chuckles softly. “There’s no way that was just small talk!”

She starts. Not just because snowflakes melted down the back of her neck, making her shiver in a lingering burst of sensation; but because despite Waver’s grumbling and doubts he _listened to her_ after all.

“…Waver…you are very kind. And clever.”

She reaches out and pats his shoulder. Her fingers feel nothing.

“Remember this, my Master: that kindness will be hard to maintain, it may feel easier to abandon it. But in the end, you will stand out among the other Mages if you mesh your kind nature and clever streak. _That_ is what will bring you glory!”

He stares at her skeptically at first. But then his eyes glisten and well up with unshed tears, and he wipes them away with a harsh “Damn it…don’t say sappy things like that, _stupid_ …!”

Laughter bubbles out of Shamhat like champagne, and she looks down at her wild-hearted young Master fondly. “Unfortunately for you, those are my specialty.”

“If my tears freeze and my face sticks like this, it’s _your fault_ , got it?”

“Please accept my apology now, then. Oh, and I almost forgot: your acidic wit will be of use as well! But in moderation.”

Waver sniffs and chuckles. “Got it.”

They resume walking in companionable silence. In a few short moments, Shamhat feels a ward of some kind envelop them in its lukewarm bubble; she sighs with relief. _Now Waver is protected. I have no need to fear._

“Waver,” she says softly, and Waver tenses at the sound. “It is time.”

He looks ready to snap at her, but he lets out an aggravated sigh instead. “…Yeah, I know. One Command Seal should be enough.”

Shamhat’s vision blurs as Waver extends his hand; the blood-red of the Command Seals looks like ink in water in this light. There are many things she wants to say, most of them redundant:

_Please care for yourself. Make sure Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie know you appreciate their hospitality. Eat as much food as you wish. I am glad we survived as long as we did. Live as best you can._

Instead, she says “I had a wonderful time with you…!”

Waver’s blurry head nods. “I-I won’t waste the chance you’ve given me.”

She wipes her eyes, but the hot tears keep flowing without end. Her only consolation is that Waver’s in the same position. A small, selfish part of her wishes to stay and watch this young man grow, but she has never been one to linger. _A student must always surpass their teacher, after all._

“By my Command Seal,” Waver says, a slight hitch in his voice, “I, Waver Velvet, release Caster from our Contract.”

Her connection to the world severs like spider-silk. Her smile lingers long after her vision turns to white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :D There were many things I wanted to write in this fic, but in the end I'm pleased with the result.   
> On that note, here's Shamhat's main Noble Phantasm that I didn't use! (Tokiomi's "at fault", here, using that bookstore.)
> 
>  _Maltittu na Masallu: Watering-hole for Equals_ “A Place To Learn and Nourish”. Shamhat’s most powerful Noble Phantasm, a Reality Marble that creates a paradise based off her time teaching Enkidu of the world. Here in this place, “foe” no longer applies: Shamhat and her opponents can converse, drink, and enjoy the bounties of civilization.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's Caster!Shamhat's stats, by the way, for those curious (which were entirely too fun to write up):
> 
> Shamhat Stats:  
> Alignment: Neutral Good  
> Strength: E  
> Mana: A  
> Endurance: A+  
> Luck: B  
> Agility: C  
> Noble Phantasm: A+  
> Skills: Charisma (B+), Alcoholic Fruit (B+), High-Speed Divine Words (A+)
> 
> I'll be showing off the Noble Phantasms in the fic proper, no worries. :D
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
